


don't hate yourself for your blackened veins

by unholyconfessions (orphan_account)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Forced Bonding, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Mild Smut, Minor Character Death, Not Canon Compliant, Not Really Character Death, Pack Dynamics, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:13:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/unholyconfessions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles finds out Jackson was bitten the same night as Scott. He's the only one willing to help banish Jackson’s ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because Stackson deserves more love.
> 
> Rated _Explicit_ for violence and sexy times in later chapters.
> 
> Also, this chapter is not beta'd. Feel free to point out any errors. Enjoy.

“Maybe it was a wild animal,” Stiles offers, lifting a finger towards his best friend. He has no idea. He really has no idea. He’s just hoping it wasn’t some other innocent dude who got bitten by a freaking lycanthrope pretty much in his _backyard_. “Maybe it was running from whatever bit you.” 

“I don’t know, man,” Scott says, spinning idly in Stiles’ desk chair as he shoots Stiles a thoughtful glance. “I thought I’d heard someone scream.”

“No, dude. Just—no. Can you imagine that? I can’t deal with someone else randomly wolfing out in the middle of a freaking lacrosse game.”

“It doesn’t have to be someone on the team. It doesn’t even have to be someone from school.”

Stiles glances at Scott over his magazine. “Right, because everyone enjoys a lonely walk in the woods at one in the morning.”

“Maybe some hikers?”

“Again, at one in the morning. Yeah, very likely.”

“I don’t know, then.” Scott breathes out a sigh. “I’m tired. I’ve gotta get some sleep.”

“You do that,” Stiles agrees, patting him on the back. “But I don’t want a werewolf sleeping in my room, so bye.”

“I don’t like how that sounds.”

“Werewolf?” 

Scott grimaces. “Yeah.”

“Why don’t you like werewolf? Werewolf sounds good, doesn’t it? Werewolf.” Stiles pushes Scott through the threshold, waiting for a smartass comeback that never comes. “Werewolf,” he teases, and Scott barely even makes an effort to laugh, flipping Stiles the finger instead. “Love you too, man.”

***

It’s not that Stiles is watching Jackson as much as he is Lydia, but they’re like Siamese twins, so he can’t help it. He notices the exact moment Jackson’s arrogant smile contorts into a sad curl of lips and a frown, and Lydia says something to him before walking away with tears in her eyes.

Stiles is still sure Jackson’s an asshole and probably fucked things up with her, but if Scott’s able to pick up a heartbeat from the guy, then that spot in Jackson’s chest is not entirely empty.

And that’s why when lunch rolls around, even if Stiles doesn’t know what compels him, he leaves Scott and Allison to be the lovey-dovey couple they are to sit with Jackson in an almost amicable silence. Jackson barely glances up at him, but the very fact that he hasn’t thrown an insult Stiles’ way has to count for something.

Jackson doesn’t even complain when Stiles steals his dessert and tags along for Chemistry. Sometimes it seems as if Jackson’s about to spill his guts, but then that overconfident gleam is back in his eyes and Stiles wonders why he even bothers.

He could really punch that face if it weren’t much too pretty to ruin.

Not that he’s noticed.

***

Scott is telling him about some stupid fight with Allison when the thought occurs to him. Stiles swallows a stolen bite of Scott’s turkey sandwich and clears his throat, dropping his hands onto the table.

“Something’s up with Jackson,” he says, and Scott slips him a puzzled look.

“You don’t even listen to me anymore, do you?”

“No,” Stiles admits, because really, who does? Scott will probably work it out with Allison someway and have make-up sex later, which is infinitely better than anything Stiles has ever had, which sums up to porn and the much appreciated company of his right hand. “I mean, look at him. He’s been acting all weird and stuff, right? ‘Cause he’s definitely a total asshole, but not so much lately. Not to me. I can even eat his pudding.”

“What?”

“That sounded dirty, didn’t it? I didn’t mean it like that. I’m sure a lot of people would like to eat Jackson’s—” Stiles rubs a hand over his face. “That’s not even the point.”

“I don’t know, man. Jackson’s just... Jackson.”

Stiles has known Jackson since, what, first grade? They might not have been buddy-buddy all the time, but he knows Jackson well enough to notice when something’s off. Jackson’s been sitting alone at lunch, hasn’t spoken to anyone in class, and hasn’t dated anyone in a while. 

And Stiles remembers how it used to be before Lydia: girls were lining up to get fucked and dumped by him the next day without a worry in the world. Now, it seems as if Jackson’s trying to be... invisible.

“He punched you during practice,” Stiles says, and Scott feigns a smile.

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me.”

“No, seriously. You’re like freaking Superman on the field now, and he managed to block you and _punch_ you. Something’s gotta be up with that.”

“You can’t possibly—”

“Ah, but I can. And I am. What if he was the mystery person out there that night, doing whatever it is he does, and the Alpha bit him?”

“He would’ve lost control by now. Come on, Stiles, this is Jackson we’re talking about. He has the shortest fuse known to mankind. He would’ve shifted in front of everyone at Lydia’s whining or coach’s yelling—”

“Or my very presence,” Stiles muses out loud. “Maybe he’s got the hang of it. I don’t know.”

“But I can’t smell it on him,” Scott offers. “I mean, not that I even try, but if he were... like me, I’d know it. Derek would have said something, too.”

“I wouldn’t trust Derek too much. Dude’s royally fucked up in the head.”

“Yeah, but he helps,” Scott says, much to Stiles’ dismay, and Stiles snorts. “Sometimes.”

“Emphasis on sometimes.” Stiles lifts a finger. “Seriously, though, it’s possible, isn’t it?”

Scott shrugs. “I guess.”

***

Again, it’s not that he’s watching Jackson per se, but this time he most definitely is, and he’s got a chart ready with everything Jackson and not-Jackson to help him figure it out. 

For instance, washing his face in the morning just before first period is Jackson, but missing five out of six rounds of practice in two weeks is definitely not. Eating his vegetables first, then the meat is also Jackson, but skipping lunch altogether is not. Leaving the showers last after practice is Jackson, but pressing Stiles up against a wall and leaning in so close that Stiles can feel the heavy beat of Jackson’s heart against his chest is _very much_ ~~hot~~ _not_.

“I’ve noticed you staring at me, Stilinski,” Jackson says, his breath hot against Stiles’ cheek.

Stiles lifts a hand to wrap around Jackson’s bicep, squeezing for dear life, and Jackson loosens his grip on Stiles’ throat just enough so he can speak, “I’m sorry, man. I just—I’m worried about you.”

Stiles can feel Jackson’s smile forming against his face. “I don’t need your concern.”

“It’s not just about you,” he says. “I know what you are, dude, and you can’t do this alone if you don’t wanna put everyone in danger.”

“Bullshit. You don’t have a clue.”

“I do, and I’m trying to help, Jackson.”

Jackson releases his grip on Stiles and closes his eyes, raising a fist. Stiles swallows dry and turns his head to side, expecting Jackson’s knuckles to connect with his jaw and leave a reminder for later, but it doesn’t happen.

Instead, there’s a loud bang on the tiles beside Stiles’ head, Jackson’s blood sliding down the wall, and Jackson’s mouth too close to his ear as Jackson whispers, “If I needed help, Stilinski, I would ask for it.”

***

Stiles’ current situation might not help his case, but he is _not_ suicidal. He likes to think of it as merely living on the edge. (Because, of course, every adrenaline junkie is into climbing up werewolves’ bedroom windows on a full moon.)

He can see the dim light through the glass above him, just out of reach as his fingers wrap around a tree branch and he pulls himself up to sit on the balustrade of Jackson’s balcony (or what he _hopes_ is Jackson’s balcony, because he has no intention of walking into the Whittemores engaging in their late night activities.)

Stiles slaps the dirt away from his jeans, squinting to get a look inside as he fumbles with the door lock. He gives it a few tries, just to be sure, but he can’t do much when he’s left his lock-picking skills at home. Chuckling to himself, Stiles taps on the glass and waits for Jackson to come.

He doesn’t.

“Jackson,” he calls out, just above a whisper, and something dashes from one side of Jackson’s room to another. Stiles jumps back, waiting for a wolf to come into view, snarling at him and making him feel like there’s no easy way out.

And there isn’t, not when his elbow smashes through the glass and he unlocks the door, stepping in. He brings a hand to the cut, wincing as his fingers brush against his abused skin, and then something crumples him over and his back hits the ground with a loud snap that he hopes isn’t a bone cracking.

Blue eyes stare at him, pinning him to the ground with little to no effort, and Stiles catches his breath, tries to think of anything other than the disgusting saliva dripping on his chest.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, his voice more unsteady than he expected, and Jackson snarls at him. He’s divided between being relieved and horrified that Jackson is the other werewolf, but some other part of him is more concerned about not being eaten alive by the cockiest, most annoying person in town (and possibly the world.) “I mean Jackson. Hi.”

“Get out,” Jackson growls, loud and strong, making Stiles’ ears ring.

Stiles is ready to agree and get the fuck out of there, but something warm drips on his leg and his disgust holds him in place for a moment, because seriously—

“I said get out,” Jackson repeats, and it gives Stiles a second to glance down at what’s going on and realize that he’s covered in red, fresh blood.

“Jackson—”

“Leave!”

He’s scared shitless, he is, but he’s worried about Jackson, about an incredibly deep and disgusting _hole_ on Jackson’s thigh that’s bleeding and staining Stiles’ jeans.

“Dude, what _is_ that?”

“You can’t stay,” Jackson scowls, then hides his face in Stiles’ neck, letting out an agonizing scream against Stiles’ skin. “I’ll kill you.”

“No. No, Jackson. You’re not gonna kill me, okay? I’m here to help. Just let me help you.”

“Fuck,” Jackson wails, letting his claws dig into the carpet as Stiles manages to squirm away from him. “The stakes.”

“Stakes. Okay.” Stiles gets to his feet, skimming through the room for them. They’re lying on Jackson’s bed, one newly wet with blood, and the other two dry, but no less bloody. Stiles grabs one, taking it with both hands and trying to figure out what to do. “You’re not actually a vampire, are you? ‘Cause vampires freak me out, seriously. I’d rather—”

“Now,” Jackson shouts, flying in Stiles’ direction.

“Fuck! Okay,” Stiles shouts, and he can see that he doesn’t have a choice, but he’s about to drive a stake through Jackson’s body and it isn’t exactly an image he’d like to have imprinted on his brain forever. 

He doesn’t know where it hits, but Jackson lands on top of him, knocking them down on the bed, and Stiles doesn’t open his eyes, only listens for the sound of Jackson’s breathing, Jackson’s beating heart. His brain takes longer to turn back up than he’s comfortable with, but he opens his eyes to a human Jackson—ridiculously good-looking and freckle-y and smelling like rusted iron and sweat.

Stiles’ hands are still around the stake between them, stuck on Jackson’s torso, which is bleeding oceans onto Stiles’ clothes and Jackson’s bed. Stiles pulls it out, yanking a whimper out of Jackson, and lifts a hand to cover the wound, tipping his head to the side so he can feel Jackson’s pulse against his mouth. 

It’s not intimate or arousing or shit, it’s just something to ground him, to bring him back to this fucked up reality that has him almost killing Jackson. It’s to reassure himself that he’s not a killer, that Jackson’s still alive.

He feels the skin slowly mending together under his fingers as Jackson shivers against him, and Stiles wraps his arms around Jackson’s back, holding on tight and clearing his mind so he doesn’t have to over think it.

Helping. That’s all he’s doing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles tries to cope with Jackson's mixed signals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my awesome beta for all the help. :-)

Stiles has always heard that the morning after is not always rainbows and unicorns, but he admits that he was expecting a little more acknowledgement from the guy who took his staking virginity (which is a _huge_ deal, because people just don’t randomly drive stakes through each other at night).

Jackson’s not one to give you flowers and chocolate, that much has been clear from the beginning, but a smile or a, “Hey, Stilinski,” sure wouldn’t hurt Jackson’s pride. If anything, it would only stroke Stiles’.

“You alright?” Scott whispers, poking Stiles on the back with a pen.

“Yeah,” he mutters, letting his teeth sink into his bottom lip. He throws Scott a smile over his shoulder and catches Jackson’s eyes for a brief moment as his eyes trail back to Mr. Harris.

He doesn’t dare look back.

Instead, after Chemistry is done, he grabs Jackson by the collar and yanks him inside the janitor’s closet.

“Fuck, Stilinski. Warn a guy, will you?” Jackson spits out, smoothing over his now wrinkled shirt.

“Fuck you,” Stiles curses, punching the wall to his right. “I don’t know what your problem is, but last night was a big freaking deal. I risked my life to help you and what do I get? Nothing. Nada. You could be a little more grateful.”

“What, you want me to drop to my knees right now and suck your dick? Is that grateful enough?”

“I—” Oh, for crying out loud. Jackson did _not_ just say that. Not when they’re in a dark closet by themselves and Stiles still remembers how it feels to have Jackson’s body pressed up against him, his mouth on Jackson’s neck and—

“Too much for you to handle?”

“No,” Stiles says, pressing Jackson between him and the metal door, brushing his lips against Jackson’s ear. “I’m sure you’ve got the most perfect cocksucking lips on the planet, Jackson, but a thank you should be enough.”

He has no idea where that just came from, or why, but as he leaves a shocked Jackson in the closet and struts his way to the cafeteria, he feels like he’s on top of the world.

***

The second night Stiles climbs up to Jackson’s room, they step around the subject of Jackson’s cocksucking lips, and they agree, albeit silently, on a mutual arrangement. This time, there’s no blood involved, only their friend Jack Daniels and marshmallows.

Yes, marshmallows, because Jackson has a sweet tooth and Stiles eats just about anything when he’s drunk, even disgusting stuff like marshmallows. Thus, when Jackson thrusts three of those at once in Stiles’ mouth, Stiles swallows them with a sip of alcohol and whatever’s left of his dignity.

“Just one condition,” Jackson says, catching a marshmallow between his teeth when Stiles throws it at him from the balcony. “Next time, use the front door.”

Stiles giggles—oh, dear God, _giggles_ —and offers his open hand to Jackson. “Not the first time I’ve been told that.”

“I bet.” Jackson throws him a key and smiles. “Get lost, Stilinski.”

***

“Stiles.”

“Holy mother of God, Derek,” Stiles says, jumping back against a wall. “Can’t you act like a _normal_ person for once? It’s not nice to sneak into other people’s room in the middle of the night.”

“You would know.” Derek fidgets in the dark, and Stiles can only see a glimpse of his face as he whispers, “You’re going to get hurt. Stay away from him,” before disappearing out the same window Stiles just came in.

***

Stiles is fumbling in his locker, looking for his English book when Scott starts acting weird. Stiles doesn’t utter a word, just waits until Scott can’t hold it in anymore.

“So, what’s up with you and Jackson?”

“Hm?” Stiles snaps his head up to glance at him, dropping the pencil in his mouth and raising his eyebrows. 

“You.”

“Me?”

“And Jackson.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Right.”

“I swear, dude. Nothing’s up.”

“Yeah.”

He’s going to kill Derek.

***

Stiles makes sure to use the front door and bring supplies when the next full moon rolls around. He finds Jackson lying on the bedroom floor, sweating and contorting himself in ways Stiles never thought possible, and Stiles is quick to chain him up before Jackson’s inhumanly strong and capable of killing him in the blink of an eye. Jackson insists on using the stakes, but Stiles is not up for it when he’s wearing his favorite shirt and brand new Vans.

“I said no, dammit,” he argues. “No bloodbath this time.”

“Pain. It helps.” Jackson’s gasping for air, rolling his head back and exposing his neck. “Please,” he says through gritted teeth.

Stiles heaves a sigh, watching as Jackson’s throat works around a mouthful of saliva. “I—I can’t.”

“Fuck, Stilinski. Just. Do it.”

And Stiles can’t bear to see Jackson that torn apart, so he kicks his shoes away, strips to his jeans and gives Jackson what he wants, ignoring how utterly wrong that sounds in his head.

After they’re done and Jackson’s blood is drying between Stiles’ toes and trickling down his chin, Jackson mouths him a silent, “Thank you,” before his eyes flutter shut.

Stiles pretends there’s no meaning behind the kiss he drops on Jackson’s forehead, and leaves.

***

Jackson’s a little on the bipolar side.

Stiles figures as much when he drops his backpack to the floor and slides into the seat beside Jackson, only to have Jackson grab the can of Pepsi sitting on his tray and throw it against the wall behind Stiles. Scott is quick to the rescue, pulling Stiles by the sleeve and yanking him back to his and Allison’s table, only giving him time to catch a glimpse of Jackson’s frown before he has to listen to Scott’s sermon.

“He’s up to no good, man.”

“I know.” Stiles closes his eyes, burying his head in his hands. “I know.” And he does, kind of, even when he totally _doesn’t_ and ends up in Jackson’s room at whatever fuck in the morning ready for another staking round. There’s always that small piece of rational thought in his brain that keeps telling him not to trust Jackson, to always keep his guard up and sleep with one eye open, but it fails more often than not.

Being an asshole is Jackson’s natural talent, no matter how nice or dazzling or beautiful he seems—it’s Jackson. The same Jackson that gives him hell for _existing_ , the same Jackson that makes fun of his Jeep, the same Jackson that surpasses Derek on the asshole scale, the same Jackson—

Fuck. The same Jackson that led him to believe in every smile coming from that perfect, freckle-infested face.

Yeah, that Jackson.

***

Nine days, twenty-one hours, forty-five minutes, and thirteen seconds—that’s how long Stiles has been avoiding everything even remotely reminiscent of Jackson.

He’s dropped lacrosse (not that anyone cares or notices, besides Scott) and he’s stopped having lunch in the cafeteria, where Jackson’s constantly eating his perfectly balanced meal with a can of Pepsi.

Stiles is also going to fail whatever classes he happens to share with Jackson, because he hasn’t shown up in most of them.

To be honest, avoiding doesn’t even begin to cover it. He’s out on a mission to wipe out Jackson from his life, destroy the memories he has of Jackson’s eyes, and Jackson’s perfect bone structure, and Jackson’s chest pressed up against his own, and Jackson’s fruity cologne that smells like pineapple and peach and orange but not quite.

Because those are all worthless memories. Memories of wishful thinking, memories that remind Stiles of how much of an idiot he is, thinking he could change Jackson for the better.

And it’s not like Stiles even _cares_ , because he’s got Scott and Allison and even Lydia or, shit, Derek, and they should be enough. They’ve always been enough. There’s no reason why he should feel incomplete or lonely or so unimaginably fucked up in the head, because he’s got everything that’s not Jackson.

Scott isn’t as forward as Stiles thought he would be when he addresses the subject. He barely even says anything, only shifts a look from Stiles to Jackson and from Jackson to Stiles while in class, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder with bittersweet understanding.

“I don’t know what to say.”

 _Then don’t say anything_ , is what Stiles wants to fire back, but he doesn’t. He slips his best friend a smile and averts his eyes, choosing to lose himself into the patterns on the back of Danny’s t-shirt, counting every sharp angle and straight line.

“Can I help?”

Stiles chuckles, more at himself than at Scott, because yeah, what a great situation he’s in, and whispers back, “No, man. I’m good.”

He can almost feel Scott’s pity pulling at his intestines.

***

The next day, Lydia can’t stop talking about Jackson’s newly found girlfriend, and it’s getting to Stiles’ nerves. “I can’t believe this,” she hisses between a sip of diet Coke and a roll of eyes. “Look at her. She doesn’t even have decent _hair_.”

Stiles is aware that this is Lydia speaking, his amazingly hot crush since it was established that the Earth is round, but maybe a “shut up” would do her, and him, some good. He really, really couldn’t care less about what’s-her-name’s hair or clothes or make-up or anything else, because, except for her being half on top of Jackson and playing tonsil hockey with him, Stiles has nothing against her.

“Jackson’s doing this to get on my nerves. The little bastard couldn’t even breakup with me in a proper way. Had to be over text. Classy.”

Absolutely nothing against her.

***

Stiles is on his way back home when someone almost hits his Jeep. The woman hops out of her car to apologize, throwing him a smile that is much too wide and toothy to be truthful.

“No problem,” he says.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Stiles considers it, but disagrees after a moment, “I don’t think so.”

“No, I do.” She points a finger at him. “You’re one of Allison’s friends, right?” she asks, offering a hand. “I’m Kate, her aunt. I don’t think we’ve met.”

Stiles shakes her hand. She smiles wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will probably be up in a few days. Maybe on the weekend. Enjoy.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's a longish chapter three! Thought I'd post it sooner rather than later. Any remaining mistakes are my fault, don't blame my beta.
> 
> Beta, I love you, babe. Thank you. <3
> 
> Enjoy!

_Meet me at school,_ Jackson’s first message says. Then, _I’m here. Where are you?_ , and Stiles hesitates, but goes, because it doesn’t matter that Jackson’s an idiot—Stiles is tired of pretending he’s living in an alternate reality where Jackson doesn’t exist. 

For that reason, when he finds Jackson drowning in a pool of crimson, metallic-smelling liquid that Stiles refuses to acknowledge as blood, the burger he’s just eaten ends up on the grass beside Jackson’s body. 

He dials Scott’s number with trembling fingers, loosening the collar around his neck so he doesn’t feel like he’s choking on oxygen, and holds Jackson close to his chest until Scott gets there.

“Stiles!” Scott calls out from afar, and Stiles snaps his head back to see his best friend and Derek approaching.

He’s holding in a cacophony of shits and fucks and whys because he can’t afford to be weak when Jackson’s bleeding out in his hands, neck slit open and limp body riddled with bullets. “I—” Stiles breathes out, because that’s all he’s able to do, and Scott grabs him by the arms, leads him to the car as Derek carries Jackson along.

In the hospital, while Stiles is scrubbing furiously at Jackson’s blood in his hands, he can hear Scott on the phone with Allison, “No, I’m taking care of it. Stay home. You’re safe there. Please, Allison. Just stay home.”

He smiles despite himself, and wonders how much of it is his fault, or Scott’s fault, or Jackson’s own fault, because there’s gotta be someone to blame. And it might as well be Scott’s for sticking his nose in someone else’s business; or Stiles’ for not being there; or Jackson’s for trying too hard, for pushing himself down an abyss of pure and abiding evil only to prove himself worthy of a curse that shouldn’t exist in the first place.

Stiles stays, wonders, until everyone leaves. He’s sitting alone in the hallway, back pressed up against a cold wall and feet drumming on the floor, when his dad finally appears. Stiles jumps to his feet, making his way to him before his dad has a chance to find the doctor.

“Anything?” Stiles mutters, and he’s not sure he said it loud enough for his dad to hear.

But soon comes the response, “Yeah, son.”

“What? Is it—?” Stiles swallows. “Did you find out who did it?”

“Not exactly, but we have a lead,” his dad whispers, pulling him into a corner. “Have you ever seen this before?”

Stiles watches the small pendant swaying before his eyes. 

“No. I haven’t.”

Fuck.

***

Stiles doesn’t sleep that night. He lies awake on his bed with his heart pounding in his chest and his brain about to explode until it’s time for him to get to school and press Scott against a wall, jabbing a finger at Scott’s chest until it hurts. Scott frowns at him, silently demanding an explanation as his fingers wrap around Stiles’ wrist.

“Your girlfriend—” Stiles starts, but the words get lost between a harsh breath and a lick of lips. “My dad found Allison’s necklace at the crime scene.”

“What?”

“Allison’s—”

“No, I heard that,” Scott says. “But you know she’s got nothing to do with this. She would never—”

“Really, Scott? Because she comes from a family that has hunted down _your_ kind for centuries and, for some mysterious reason, a personal item of hers shows up in a puddle of Jackson’s blood the night someone decides to kill him. Does that sound like a ‘she would never’ to you?”

The anger emanating from Scott is almost palpable, hanging on the air around them and clinging to Stiles’ shoulders. He doesn’t move, even as Scott’s eyes turn amber and his claws almost tear at the skin on Stiles’ wrist.

“She. Didn’t. Do. It.”

Tension pulls at Stiles’ neck and he grits his teeth, taking a careful step back so he doesn’t end up in the hospital with Jackson. Scott shoves him farther away—for good measure, Stiles figures—before Stiles turns and punches the mirror.

“Fuck,” Stiles says, ignoring the pain that shoots up from his knuckles all the way to his arm. “I’m sorry. Fuck. I just—I need to know why and—I—I can’t—”

“Kate Argent.”

Stiles stares at Scott through the shattered mirror, waiting for him to add an explanation Stiles knows doesn’t exist, and fights the urge to vomit on the bathroom floor.

***

_Please, be okay. Be okay, Jackson. Just be okay._

“Your fanclub sent some flowers today. They smell like feet.” 

_You’re gonna be okay, right? Right, Jackson? You will._

“I like the colors, though, they match your delightful personality.” Stiles chuckles. 

_Tell me to shut up. Come on, Jackson. Say it._

_You’re much too stubborn to die._

“I’ve been skipping every Chem class since you got yourself in this place, did you know that? Harris just keeps looking at me weird. Like I’m somehow responsible for his favorite student being here.”

_And because you weren’t there, you stupid—_

“May I come in?”

Stiles’ eyes dart up to spot Jackson’s... girlfriend. Emily. Ella. Elena.

“Yeah.”

“Is he doing better?” she asks, placing a single flower by Jackson’s pillow. 

“Yeah.” Stiles nods. _Go away._ “A little.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Mm-hm.”

She buries a hand in Jackson’s greasy hair, smoothing over a few messy strands, and Stiles diverts his attention to a blank spot on the wall, waiting until she’s finished placing a kiss on Jackson’s cheek to up and leave the room.

***

Stiles doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, but when Jackson murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like _Stilinski_ , all he can do is to let his forehead rest against Jackson’s and whisper back, “Just shut up and go back to sleep. I’m right here.”

***

Stiles doesn’t like the way Allison is looking at him. He _hates_ it, because she has no right to judge, to look at him as if he’s responsible for something, as if it weren’t her fucked up family that repeatedly shot Jackson in the chest until he was drowning in his own blood.

“What?”

She shakes her head, looking back down at her food. “Nothing. I just—” She smiles. Concerned. Pitying. “Are you alright, Stiles? I know it’s been a hard couple of days, with Jackson being in the hospital and everything, but we’re here for you. Scott and I.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks.” Stiles forces a smile. “But he’s getting better.”

“Yeah? That’s great.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Who’s getting better?” Scott asks, placing a quick kiss to Allison’s cheek as he sits beside her.

“Jackson,” Allison says, looking at Scott and back at Stiles.

“Oh,” Scott mutters, slipping Stiles a sympathetic look. “That’s great, right?”

Stiles nods. “Totally.”

***

“I can walk on my own, Stilinski.”

“’Course you can.” Stiles presses tighter against Jackson’s chest, shifting his hold on Jackson’s waist.

“I don’t—”

“Need my help. Yeah, you’ve told me.” He just wishes Jackson would stop being an asshat. Jackson has kept his jerk façade for so long that Stiles can only imagine how deep it already runs in Jackson’s veins, spreading like cancer. “Just let me do this, alright?”

“That’s—”

“Will you shut up?”

“I was—”

“No.”

“No what?”

“I don’t know. Just—stop talking.” Jackson stops moving, forcing Stiles to shift his weight on his feet and glance up at him. “I’m not doing this for you.” _Liar_. “Alright? I’m doing this for me. I’ve nothing better to do than pick up ungrateful jerks from the hospital. It’s like voluntary work. Great for society.”

“ _Stiles—_ ”

“And it’s not like I have friends or anything. I’m just so antisocial. I brood in my room all day and—” Wait. “What?”

“I was going to say that I don’t know how to thank you for this,” Jackson says, meeting Stiles’ eyes with a gaze that doesn’t scream _I’m better than you_ or _Get out of my face_ or _Shut up before I bite your head off._

“You called me Stiles.”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?”

“Eh,” Stiles mumbles. No, not exactly, but Jackson doesn’t have to know that. Nobody has to know that. “Yeah.”

“Then please just take me home, _Stiles._ This place smells like shit.”

“ _You_ smell like shit.”

“Don’t make me regret—”

“Alright, alright. Sorry. My bad.”

***

Stiles’ dad has been asking weird questions these last few days ( _are you heading out again?_ and _do you have something to tell me?_ and _you know you can talk to me about anything, right, son?_ ) and Stiles half-answers, half-dodges them all. He would like to tell his dad that Allison’s very, very crazy aunt attacked Jackson and left him to bleed his life away on the field, and that Stiles has been helping him out ever since, but he figures most people would not react well to that tiny bit of information.

He’s done packing and ready to sneak out for the fourth consecutive occasion when the sound of a very characteristic throat-clearing echoes in the room. Stiles freezes, one leg inside his room and another on the small roof outside his window, and waits for the imaginary gunshot to hit him on the head.

After much thought (or not, really) he splutters out, “I’m dating someone,” which is true in a way. Maybe not in the most conventional one, which includes kissing/groping/sex, but in the way that has Stiles sneaking out during the night and taking care of Jackson when no one else will. He’s not even lying, because that’s as close to dating as it gets.

Stiles turns to face his dad, cheeks burning with embarrassment and a bad feeling pooling in his gut, but he only gets a nod and a, “As long as you don’t miss school tomorrow,” in return before his dad disappears into the hallway.

In the middle of American Psycho, Stiles tells Jackson what happened, and Jackson laughs at him around a bottle of vodka.

“I’m your secret boyfriend, then?” Jackson says, much too amused for Stiles to be comfortable, but not entirely.

Stiles snorts. “You wish.” 

“Hm, I don’t know, Stilinski,” Jackson ponders, tilting his head to one side. “You’re half-naked in my room at four in the morning when you’re supposed to be up in three hours to get to school. Sounds like something a boyfriend would do.”

“I’m not half-naked,” Stiles counters. “I’m _shirtless_ , because it’s hot as hell in here, and that’s not even the point. You were _hurt_ , Jackson. Badly hurt. Like, I-was-ready-for-your-funeral hurt, and it’s not like anyone else cares enough to be here, besides me,” he says, and it’s only after he hears the words himself that he realizes how bad it just sounded. “Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, dude. I didn’t mean—”

Jackson gives him a smile. “No, you’re right. You don’t really care, either.”

“That’s not fair.” Is it? “I wouldn’t be here if—”

“I wasn’t a werewolf. That’s why, isn’t it? You’re afraid that I might go out on a killing spree if you’re not here to babysit me; that I might go after your friends or your family or something. I’m a monster, Stiles, and I don’t blame you for being protective.” Jackson nods, not really at Stiles, and sighs. “It’s a nice little fantasy we’ve got here, hm?”

“It’s not a fantasy.” Yes, Stiles _is_ afraid Jackson might hurt somebody. Yes, Stiles wants, _needs_ , to look after his loved ones. Yes, Stiles is there because he’s being protective, but it’s not only that— “I can’t have _you_ being hurt, either, asshole. I can’t have your lifeless body lying on a fucking lacrosse field again. Do you have any idea how that feels, hm? To get a text saying I should meet you there and find you with your throat slit open and bullet holes all over your chest? To spend an entire hour pretty much skinning myself in the shower to get rid of _your_ blood? I didn’t know when you were gonna wake up, and it was _killing_ me, dude. I was there every single day, making an idiot of myself, even when your girlfriend felt the need to light candles and scatter flowers all over the room.”

Stiles holds Jackson’s gaze, keeping in a shattering, cold laugh. He doesn’t have to make things worse. Jackson’s fine, now. They don’t have to fight. They don’t have to pretend to be something they’re not. 

“I—I didn’t know,” Jackson says, eyes flickering with _something_. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you get close to me—”

“You shouldn’t have let me get close to you? Are you kidding me? The moment I started to think you weren’t a cocky son of a bitch, you pushed me away. You completely ignored me, dude. I ditched my friends, to be _here_ , and you just—you shut me out. That’s nowhere _near_ letting me get close to you.”

Jackson closes his eyes, turning his head away from Stiles as he apologizes again, “I’m sorry. I just—I was trying so hard. I am trying so hard. Do you think it’s been easy for me, hm? I was like your little gang’s archenemy and then, bam, you’re acting like we’re best friends. It was getting complicated. One moment I was ready to punch your face in and then—” He runs a hand through his hair, sending droplets of water flying Stiles’ way. “I didn’t know what to do. I was scared.”

“Scared of _what_ , Jackson? Aren’t you the golden boy? Fearless and perfect?”

“Of putting people I care about in danger. I’ve let Lydia, Danny, everyone go. I don’t wanna be responsible for—” Jackson bites down onto his lower lip, shaking his head. “I can’t be responsible for doing something to you. I can’t.”

“But you don’t even like me—” 

“Are you seriously that dense, Stilinski? Do you think I pretend to be an asshole just to open up like a cute puppy to everyone who seems to give a flying shit? Not fucking likely,” Jackson says. “Yeah, I guess I kind of _am_ your secret boyfriend after all.” Jackson chuckles, despite the... shame that seems to be creeping up his face. “Except we’ve skipped all the good parts and gone straight to the angst.”

Jesus _Christ._

“I can fix that,” Stiles offers and straightens his back, licking his lips as Jackson watches him with a frown. “I mean, uh. Not now. Maybe someday, when you’re single and I’m, well, not so _dense_.”

“Just so you know, I don’t have a girlfriend. I was just, you know.”

Stiles nods, more to reassert himself than to reassure Jackson. “I just—I don’t want you to push me away like, well, always. I’m here because I want to. No one’s forcing me to do anything, dude.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Now can we please go back to the movie?”

They do, even if Stiles is not paying attention at all, instead watching Jackson flinch and laugh and frown at the screen. God, Jackson’s so flawless on the outside—what with perfect hair, lips, skin, smile, and those stupid, stupid freckles that have made Stiles want to reach out and just _touch_ ever since they were kids, despite the jerk façade—but so deliciously broken inside, damaged to the core, that Stiles wants nothing more than to mend him back together. 

And he is well aware of how freaking ridiculous that sounds, even to himself, because he’s pretty high on the psychologically-fucked-up scale as well. Still, it doesn’t change the fact that when Jackson lets his weaknesses show, he has this something in his eyes—

“Hey, Stilinski,” Jackson says. “That night, when you kissed me, I wasn’t sleeping.”

“I didn’t kiss—”

“You did.”

He did. “No—well—yeah. Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking.”

Jackson grins, and Stiles breathes in a mouthful of air because, seriously, that smile on Jackson’s face is a _rare_ occasion. “I know I pushed you away then, but you should stop thinking more often.”

***

The next day, after school, Stiles waits for a reply, but an empty screen still stares back at him with a friendly reminder that Jackson may never stop being Jackson.

“Son?” His dad knocks on the door. “I’m home.”

Stiles slips his phone in his back pocket and heads for the door, opening it to find his dad with a few files in hand. “Hey, dad.”

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” He steps aside and his dad nods, taking a seat in Stiles’ bed and handing him a picture.

“That necklace,” his dad says. “You told me you’d never seen it before.”

Stiles’ breath hitches. “Yeah.”

“That Argent girl—”

“Allison.”

“She has one.”

Oh, crap. “She does?” Stiles gives the picture back. “I wouldn’t know.”

His dad clasps his hands together, placing his elbows on his knees. “Don’t lie to me, Stiles.”

“I’m not lying—”

“Please.”

Stiles closes his eyes, letting himself slump onto his desk chair. “Dammit. Fine. Allison has one, but it’s like a family heirloom or something. She didn’t do anything wrong. Her aunt’s got one, too.”

“Her aunt?”

“Yeah, but she’s gone. Allison—nobody’s seen her since that night.”

“You think she’s somehow involved in this? Jackson might give you and Scott trouble, but he’s just a kid. She’s got no motive.”

“I don’t know, dad.”

“I’m going to have a talk with that Allison girl. Something’s not right here.”

 _Yeah, dad, maybe because freaking werewolves and werewolf hunters live amongst us._

Stiles nods, smiles. “You do that.”

***

Monday morning, Stiles is on the verge of going certifiably crazy when he finds Scott and Allison under the bleachers during their free period. Allison smiles, despite being half-naked and blushing a crimson red that hurts Stiles’ eyes, and Scott clears his throat, gathering his things and walking with Stiles back inside with a peck to Allison’s lips and an apology.

“Something happen?”

Stiles rubs at his eyes, leaning against a locker as Scott drops his bag on the ground and tips his head forward, closer to Stiles. “Yeah. Maybe.”

“Well?” Scott whispers after a moment of silence, and Stiles nods.

“My dad is onto the Argents. He knows about Allison’s aunt—”

“Kate.”

“—and the necklace and Jackson—”

“Jackson?”

“—not that he’s a werewolf, but that Kate,” Stiles gestures with a hand, “had something to do with the attack.”

“He can’t know,” Scott says, gripping Stiles’ arm hard enough to bruise. “You can’t let him find out.”

“I know, dude. I know that. Jesus. You don’t have to rip my arm off. I think you’re hanging out with Derek too much.” Scott steps back and Stiles adds, “He’s just gonna talk to Allison, okay? Today after school.”

“But she doesn’t know anything.”

“Yeah, and that’s even better. She won’t have to lie.”

Scott closes his eyes. “Alright. Fine. Anything else I should be worried about?”

“Well, uh,” Stiles mutters, because there’s a werewolf missing in town and that’s not exactly in his everyday repertoire. “Jackson’s missing.”

“Missing? Like, gone?”

“Yes.” Stiles doesn’t believe Jackson will go out on a killing spree, but he’s not willing to bet. Not when Jackson is recovering from a psycho hunter’s attack and the full moon is near. “He hasn’t answered my calls or my texts.”

“Have you tried going to his place?”

“No.”

“Are you _afraid_ to go to his place?”

 _Yes._ “No.”

“I’m sure nothing’s happened to him, man. I’ll go with you, if you want,” Scott offers, and Stiles doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just waits for his mouth to stop being so dry and his heart to stop threatening to snap his ribs in half. “You’ve got a key, right? Let’s just sneak in and see if we find anything. I won’t let anything happen to him.”

“That’s not... up to you,” Stiles says, but his entire body is shaking with panic, and Scott catches him before he collapses on the ground.

“Stiles. Stiles.” The world is spinning, blurring around him like he’s stuck in a merry-go-round going a mile a second, and his stomach flips upside down. “Stay with me, dude.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's chapter four. Took a bit longer than the others, but I promise I'll try to speed things up. 
> 
> Thank you to my beta, as usual. I'm forever in your debt, babe.
> 
> Any excessive use of commas is my fault, because I love them and my beta has now been brought to the dark side and is allowing me to keep them. <3
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. Enjoy.

Stiles buries his head in a pillow that smells suspiciously like Scott. Rolling on his side, he opens his eyes to find Scott sleeping on his desk chair, arms wrapped around his bent knees and chin resting against his chest.

“Scott?” Stiles mutters, and Scott grimaces before opening his eyes and slipping Stiles a smile.

“Hey, man. Feeling better?”

“Yeah. I—what happened?”

“No idea. A panic attack or something.”

Oh, God. He fainted. He freaking fainted in front of Scott. It’s bad enough that he’s Robin in this scenario, and now he’s a _fainting_ Robin. That’s like, even worse than wearing tights and green underwear over it. Ugh.

“Shit. I’ve—we’ve gotta get to Jackson’s—”

“Um, that’s—that’s the thing,” Scott licks his lips, clasping his hands together just like Stiles’ dad does when he’s worried about something. “Jackson’s here.”

“What? Here? At your place?”

“No. I mean here in town. He’s in the hospital.”

Holy freaking hell. Jackson really has a penchant for white germy places. “Then what are we still doing here?” 

“But you’re—”

“I’m alright. I’m fine,” Stiles snaps. “And even if I weren’t, I think the hospital would still be the best option here.”

Scott lets out a long breath through his nose and rolls his eyes, but comes with Stiles to see Jackson without another word. 

“You got me worried sick,” Stiles whispers once he’s alone with Jackson, bringing his lips to rest on Jackson’s sweat-covered brow. “Literally. I don’t know if I should punch you or something else, but—” Stiles swallows around nothing. “Just stop coming back to the hospital, man. I’ve got an academic career, you know. I can’t just skip school to be with you. Not again.” He laughs. Empty. Cold. Humorless. “And yet, that’s probably what I’ll be doing this week. Or month. I don’t know how long you’re gonna be here this time—”

“Not long, I hope.”

The smile that spreads itself on Stiles’ lips is genuine. He leans back and away from Jackson just to get a look at Jackson’s face. He misses it. He misses Jackson. And yeah, that’s probably gayer than Danny in a flowery dress, but he’s not dwelling on it.

“You’re awake,” he says, licking his lips and tasting sweat and Jackson. “And apologizing. That’s new.”

Jackson’s eyes dart away from Stiles and to the window. “Scott—”

“Yeah, uh, he’s here.” Stiles glances over his shoulder to see Scott closing the door behind him.

“Hey,” Scott says, and Jackson arms himself with his usual arrogant face.

Stiles pokes him on the head and he slaps Stiles’ hand away. “He shouldn’t be here,” Jackson says, throwing Stiles a warning look.

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need—”

“ _Clearly,_ " Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, dude. Enough with the speech. You don’t get to refuse our help when it’s the second time you end up in the hospital in less than a month. I can’t handle you all by myself.”

“I shouldn’t even be here in the first place, Stilinski. I’m fine.”

Scott clears his throat. “My mom said they’re keeping you for observation.”

“Observation? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’m alright. Look,” Jackson says, pulling up his shirt to reveal smooth, perfect skin that makes Stiles look away. “No bullet holes. No scars. I’m _fine_ , McCall.”

“Then why are you even here?”

“I don’t know. I went out to meet Esther and the last thing I remember is waking up here.”

“But you’re fine,” Stiles says, tentatively, because this whole werewolf thing has been getting out of hand lately.

“Yes,” Jackson hisses. “I’m fine.”

“See, Scott? He’s fine. Let’s get out of here.”

***

That night, in Jackson’s actual room, Stiles lets his mind float around tequila and lime as his naked back rests against the cold hardwood floor. He can hear Jackson complaining about whatever and Scott smashing buttons even through the annoying buzzing in his ears—and that’s the closest he’s got to normal in a while. He’d like to keep it like that.

“I don’t wanna get busted for breaking you out,” he says, his voice pitching higher as he props himself up on his elbows and squints at the screen.

“You won’t,” Jackson says. Scott’s totally kicking his ass. “Son of a—”

Scott chuckles. “You suck at this, Jackson.”

“Whatever. Scott’s mom is covering for us anyway, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. I think. Is she?” Stiles makes an effort to sit up, but ends up stumbling onto Jackson’s back, which is surprisingly freckle-free and soft and—

“Stiles.” Jackson’s voice sends a shiver down his spine. “What in the hell are you doing?”

“Me? Nothing. I’m just—just trying to sit up.”

“Really. Because it feels like you’re literally breathing down my neck.”

“Sorry. Lost balance.” God, his brain is totally not making sense right now. Is Jackson hot or what? Like, radiating heat, not as in—actually, as in that kind of hot too, but he’s burning up against Stiles’ cheek, which is still pressed up against Jackson’s skin when it completely _shouldn’t be._ “Dude, you okay? You got a fever or something?”

“I’m—I’m fine. Just a little—” Jackson cuts himself short, and Stiles is not drunk enough to miss that crack in Jackson’s voice.

“Shit. Dude—dude—” Stiles holds him up as Jackson sways back, dropping the controller to the floor and muttering something Stiles can’t make out. “Scott!”

“What’s happening?”

“I don’t know. Fuck.” 

Jackson’s head flies back with a sound that has Stiles worried he might have broken his neck, and the blue in his eyes turn to darkness, staring back at Stiles expressionlessly.

“I can’t—can’t breathe,” Jackson gasps, grabbing the hand Stiles has on his chest and squeezing. “Can’t—”

A sharp sting flares up Stiles’ arm as Jackson’s claws dig in, tearing at skin and spilling blood, making Stiles draw his arm back in surprise.

“He’s turning,” Scott says, holding Stiles back and away from Jackson’s trembling body. “Something’s wrong. Call Derek.”

“Derek? No way in—”

“Now, Stiles!” Scott’s wolf eyes glare at him and Stiles crawls to where his phone is on Jackson’s bed, dialing Derek’s number.

“He’s not answering.”

“Keep trying.”

Stiles does so—once, twice, three times. “He’s not _answering_ , Scott. Go freaking get him.”

“I’m not leaving—”

“Yes, you are, dude,” Stiles says. “Right now. Just go. I can handle it. Go!”

Stiles drags Jackson to the bed once Scott disappears after Derek, taking the stakes from the top drawer as a precaution. Jackson’s chest heaves with an effort to breathe and he turns to Stiles, eyes flickering with tears attempting to break free. His gaze doesn’t leave Stiles as if to say, _You know what to do, Stiles. Do it. Just do it_ , and Stiles wraps a hand around a stake, feeling the weight of mountain ash against his palm.

“Are you sure?”

Jackson’s lips pull back, baring newly grown fangs, and Stiles swallows the knot in his throat, tightens his grip on the stake. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and drives it into Jackson’s stomach. Jackson cries out in pain, arching his back and clawing at the mattress.

His cry gets more intense, louder, and Stiles is sure Jackson’s parents won’t be happy to wake up in the middle of the night to find Stiles almost killing their son. So, even against his better judgment, Stiles jumps on top of Jackson and tries to talk him out of it.

“Dude, come on. You’ll wake your parents up and I don’t wanna get arrested at age sixteen. Snap out of it. It’s not a full moon. You’re in control.”

“Stiles—” Jackson gasps, his eyes flicking back and forth between wolf-blue and Jackson-blue, and wraps a hand around Stiles’ nape, pulling him closer. “You. Smell. So. Good,” Jackson punctuates each of his words with a lick at Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles would have found it strangely erotic if he weren’t in this particular situation.

“That would be my new shampoo.”

“Mm,” Jackson mutters, ignoring Stiles’ protests as he sinks his teeth into Stiles’ neck.

“Jesus Christ, Jackson. I get the stakes, I do—mountain ash and everything—but you’re not a freaking vampire.” Stiles tries to pull away, pushing at Jackson’s shoulders, but Jackson only snarls at him and tightens his grip. “Seriously.”

Even if it pains him to do it, Stiles is not about to turn into werewolf dinner; the second stake slides in almost effortlessly, getting a growl out of Jackson, who digs his claws into Stiles’ back. Stiles squirms his way out from Jackson’s grip and tries to ignore the pain shooting across his torso as he backs up against a wall.

Jackson’s eyes turn bright, shining with anger Stiles doesn’t want directed his way, and he pulls the stakes out, letting fresh blood soak the white sheets beneath him. Stiles’ breath hitches at the sight, panic streaking through him, and he chooses to arm himself with the first pointy object he can find—just in case Jackson’s thinking about killing him or something.

“Jackson, it’s me, dude. Stiles. You know, that kid from school you hate so much.” Okay—so maybe that’s not something you should say to a werewolf who’s about to eat you alive. “I mean, the kid from school you love so much. I hang out at your place. I even let you feed me marshmallows.”

“Stiles,” Jackson says, his voice fluctuating between psycho-killer and bizarrely aroused, which doesn’t do much to soothe Stiles’ nerves.

“Yeah.”

“Stiles,” Jackson repeats, suddenly in Stiles’ personal space. He presses up against Stiles from chest to hip, burrowing his nose in the crook of Stiles’ neck as he keeps chanting Stiles’ name like a mantra.

Stiles doesn’t know how to react—fight or flight, his brain is screaming at him, but his body is already on other terms. He lets the candlestick fall to the ground and suddenly Jackson is like fire against him, burning hot and fast, his intentions unashamed, unavoidable as he claws at Stiles’ jeans. 

Stiles takes a sharp inhale of breath, hanging onto his last spurt of dignity as he lets Jackson go on. He’s aware of what Jackson’s about to do; there’s no denying that it won’t be good or comfortable, but he’s sober enough to realize there’s no way he’s going to win this and drunk enough to allow it to happen. As Jackson flips him around and his cheek squashes hard against the cold wall, he concentrates on the taste of blood in his mouth and lets go.

***

Stiles wipes at his face, smearing sweat and blood on his cheeks and chin. Jackson sits on the floor—silent, a hand over his eyes, crying to himself as if Stiles can’t hear him—and Stiles pulls his jeans back up from around his ankles, sits there with him after Jackson’s eyes go over him once, twice.

Stiles holds back the nauseating haul at the pit of his stomach to throw an arm around Jackson’s shaking frame as Jackson’s sobs get louder. He’s aware that this isn’t the perfect situation for stupid remarks or small talk, but he’s Stiles—he doesn’t do appropriate.

“Hey, at least now we’ve consummated the relationship,” he says, picking at the dried mess on his abs, and Jackson shifts under his touch, throwing him a red-eyed glare. “And it didn’t even hurt that much,” Stiles adds, as if it makes things better.

“How can you—?” Jackson chokes on his own words, shaking his head as he averts his eyes. “I don’t get you, Stiles.”

This time, Stiles notices, his name sounds wrong coming from Jackson’s mouth—dirty, misplaced. He doesn’t want to hear it, to feel like he’s done something so incredibly fucked up that even Jackson thinks it’s deplorable.

He hasn’t. He’s not making up for any mistakes, and neither should Jackson. If there is anyone to blame, it’s not them; it’s the alpha that bit Jackson, that forced the curse on him when he didn’t ask for it.

Scott casts them a curious look after he comes back, and Stiles doesn’t know how long it’s been since he’s been sitting on the floor with Jackson, but it’s easier to pretend everything’s alright when Scott says, “I couldn’t find him. Dude, what happened? Are you okay?”

Stiles smiles, nods. “Yeah. We’re alright,” he replies, even if he knows Scott is not worried about Jackson.

***

Derek comes to find him.

He hasn’t been to school, like his dad thinks, choosing to sit on the front porch of the old Hale house instead, waiting for Derek to show day after day to no avail. Now, as Derek stands in his room, he wants to punch that sour face in until he breaks his knuckles.

“You weren’t there,” Stiles says when Derek takes a step toward him, and holds up an accusing finger. “Scott couldn’t find you. I—we—we needed you.”

“I warned you.”

“You _warned_ me? You—”

“I told you to stay away from Jackson.”

“Yeah, and you didn’t care to give me a reason for that,” Stiles says. Derek’s eyes are fixed on him, rooting him to the ground. “That’s what you do, Derek. You walk around dictating orders like you’re the mightiest person in the entire fucking planet, but you just don’t think people deserve to know _why_.”

“Knowing only makes things worse.”

“I can’t believe you. You’re so full of shit.”

Derek inhales a sharp breath. “Why? You want to know why, Stiles?”

“No, Sherlock. I’ve been skipping class to look for you so we can have a fucking tea party. _Yes_ , I want to know why.”

“Jackson is dangerous,” Derek says, and Stiles waits for an explanation that never comes. “I didn’t want you to get—”

“Hurt? You have no clue, do you? I’m already hurt, Derek. I’ve got fucking claw marks on my back that hurt like fuck. I’ve been ignoring my friends for days because I can’t look them in the face—especially Jackson. I can’t sleep because I’ve been wondering what went wrong to fuck things up like this.” Stiles’ hands ball up into fists and nails dig into his palm. “I deserve to know what in the holy hell is going on.”

Stiles doesn’t fight when Derek walks into his personal space. Derek makes a face once he’s close enough to Stiles that Stiles feels threatened, sniffing the air around him. “You reek of sex,” Derek says. “You reek of _him_.”

“I—”

“You slept with him.” Stiles doesn’t like the way that sounds, the condemning way Derek states it. “You let him take you. You let him fuck you.”

“Stop with the analogies. Jesus Christ,” Stiles protests. “He was turning, alright? I didn’t know what to do. He just—he needed it.”

Derek presses his lips in a thin line, leaving a hole in the wall that’s going to be hard for Stiles to explain to his dad later. “You should have _listened_ to me, Stiles,” Derek hisses. “You should have listened.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter five is here, folks! Derek provides some answers, but raises a couple more questions. 
> 
> Brace yourselves for some Stiles angst. Nothing explicit here, but as my beta said, there's "just naughty imagery that makes you want to STAB EVERYONE WHO IS HURTING MY STILES."
> 
> As usual, thank you to my lovely beta, who allows me to hurt Stiles a little and keeps me up until 9 in the freaking morning talking about pickles and peas. I love you. :-)
> 
> Feedback is much appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

Derek’s eyes are shifting from Stiles’ face to Stiles’ restless hands, his mouth moving as he speaks, shaping around words that Stiles refuses to hear. They sound like white noise, like silence that’s not quite empty, and it makes Stiles want to kick at something until he can’t feel his feet anymore.

He can’t remember when the buzzing in his ears started getting louder—maybe around the time Jackson walked in through the door, wearing the most crushed expression Stiles has ever seen on someone’s face, and his eyes met Stiles’ for a brief moment before he settled somewhere on Stiles’ bed.

Stiles is aware that this is important, that he should be listening, but it’s hard to focus on the sound of Derek’s voice when his lungs aren’t working.

“Stiles.” His eyes snap up in Derek’s general direction, and Derek wipes at his face. 

Stiles spins in his chair so he’s facing the wall. “I’m listening.”

“No,” Derek says. “You’re not.”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry if I’m not attentive enough right now, but I’m not exactly used to people telling me that I _mated_ with a mutant ninja werewolf who happens to have been cursed by his girlfriend, who was sent by _you_ to make me his bitch,” Stiles fires back, feeling heat rise up his cheeks. “I don’t know what you think, Derek, but that’s not an average day in my life.”

“The spell was not meant for you and Jackson. He was supposed to—”

“Have fucked her instead of Stiles?” Jackson interrupts.

“Esther is pack. If you mated with her, then _you’d_ be pack. I had no choice.”

“No choice? It was your choice to bite me. I didn’t ask for _any_ of this.”

“The other alpha is after you and he’s out to kill anyone that gets in the way. This is not about you or your feelings, Jackson.”

“Are you really that stupid or just pretending to be? You made it about me and my feelings the moment you bit me. I had to push everyone I love away because of you. I turned into this— _thing_ because of you. You—” Stiles knows that pause, that small hesitation. It’s not good. Jackson stands, taking one, two steps closer to Derek, who steps back until the back of his thighs hits Stiles’ desk. “You made it about me, and Lydia, and Danny. You made it about _Stiles_.”

Derek’s back straightens; his face hardens as his eyes trail from Jackson to Stiles and back. “You were supposed to be pack. None of this would have happened if you had come with me. I can protect him from you.”

“Protect him? I—” Jackson averts his eyes, sinking his teeth into his lower lip. “You let me rape him.” Stiles clutches at the hem of his shirt until his knuckles turn white, ignoring the nausea crawling up his throat. “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror. I don’t care what excuses you pull out of our ass—nothing is going to change that. Ever.”

Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but Jackson leaves before he can process the thought.

***

The ground is cold and wet under Stiles’ feet, filling the space between his toes with mud. His clothes cling to his body like a second skin, drenched in blood and dirt as he raises a hand to wipe at the water in his eyes, squints at images that don’t want to come into focus. Even if his hands are unstill, his shoulders shaking as icy raindrops cascade down his frame, his insides burn with blazing desperation.

“ _I warned you,_ ” Derek’s voice sounds around him, just as lightning strikes the sky, echoing in his ears. “ _But you never listen._ ”

He slips into a narrow path between the trees, dashing through it and ignoring the cuts that form on his arms when the branches graze his skin. Jackson. He has to find Jackson. Gasping, he stops to regain his breath, letting his forehead rest against wood as lips ghost over his ear.

“ _Do you think it’s your fault?_ ” Derek whispers. “ _You do. He could have lived if it weren’t for you._ ”

Stiles closes his eyes. “No.”

“ _Are you sure?_ ”

He groans in disgust when Derek’s claws dig into his thigh, and he fights to keep in his sobs. He feels Derek’s smile forming against his neck, Derek’s teeth scraping at his skin. Then, just as quickly as Derek showed up, he disappears, eyes glowing red as he vanishes into darkness. Stiles wipes at the spot just below his ear with a wrist, trying to get the feel of Derek away from him.

“Fuck,” he cries out, tasting blood on his tongue as he bites down onto his lower lip. He can feel his mind slipping away, emptiness spreading over him like a disease, eating him up inside.

“ _Stiles._ ” It’s not Derek, this time. No. Stiles turns around. Lydia smiles at him. “ _Find him,_ ” she says, cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes. She’s standing close enough to him that he can smell the cherry on her lips, feel the softness of her hair as it brushes against his face, and Stiles draws in a breath, revels in the moment until she fades away.

“ _He won’t make it._ ” Stiles’ eyes flutter open to find Kate kneeling behind Jackson, a sly smile plastered on her face as she runs the tip of a knife across Jackson’s neck. “ _If I cut right here,_ ” she says, “ _he’ll bleed out in seconds._ ”

“ _She’ll do it,_ ” Scott says, standing behind her. He turns his head to the side, burying his nose on the curve of Allison’s neck. “ _You know she will._ ”

Stiles’ hands are tingling. He can’t move his arms. Allison smiles, holding the bow close to her. Stiles looks down at the arrow sticking out of his stomach and metal invades his mouth, makes blood trail down his chin and drip on his shirt. Stiles drops to his knees, hands limp by his side as the grin on Kate’s lips widens, knife tearing at skin on Jackson’s neck.

“ _Slow,_ ” she purrs, her voice almost pornographic as her mouth caresses Jackson’s cheek, “ _and steady._ ” Her eyes are fixed on Stiles, even when she runs the knife over her tongue, licking Jackson’s blood. “ _He tastes as good as he looks._ ”

Jackson’s gaze is empty, a blank stare set on nothing, unmoving. Kate drops the knife, places a hand on Jackson’s chin and turns his head toward her, presses her mouth to his. Stiles can’t close his eyes, can’t look away as her hand slides down Jackson’s naked chest, her tongue laps at Jackson’s mouth.

Blood everywhere—Jackson’s torso, Kate’s hands, Jackson’s neck, Kate’s mouth.

Stiles’ throat.

“ _I warned you,_ ” Derek says against Lydia’s neck, undoing the buttons on her blouse. Lydia rolls her head back against the tree, wrapping her legs around Derek’s waist as he pulls her up. His hands disappear up her skirt and Lydia moans. “ _Didn’t I?_ ”

“Stop,” Stiles gasps, spilling blood on the grass beneath his knees. “Please stop.”

Scott and Allison laugh. His claws rip her shirt open, letting it fall to the ground as Allison hooks a finger on the waistband of his jeans and pulls him closer. His eyes turn brighter and he growls, sinking a hand in Allison’s hair.

“ _Wake up, Stiles,_ ” Scott says, sparing him a smile. “ _Wake up._ ”

“Your passion for Chemistry astounds me, Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles jumps in his seat, his back crashing hard against his chair as his mouth hangs open. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

He barely makes it to the bathroom when class is over, emptying his stomach on the floor just as he steps through the threshold, Scott close behind him. Bile keeps rising in his throat with every breath and he hunches over, clutches at his stomach as the stench becomes unbearable. Scott slips an arm around his waist, drags him to a stall and stays there with him until he’s sure there’s nothing else left to vomit.

Stiles wipes at his mouth as he lifts his head from the toilet, squirming out of Scott’s grip to lean against a wall. Glancing back at Scott, he attempts a smile that makes his brain hurt, but when Scott’s shoulders relax and his face softens, Stiles figures it’s good enough.

***

This time, when Stiles wakes up from yet another fucked up dream, a much better face than Harris’ stares back at him. Jackson wraps a hand around his wrist, whispering, “Sssh. You’re going to wake your dad up,” in his ear as he tries to make sense of what’s going on. He wipes at the sweat on his face and breathes out a mouthful of air, turning his head to the side until he can smell cologne on Jackson’s neck.

“You alright?”

Stiles nods, even though the image of Derek on top of Jackson—nails cutting into Jackson’s neck as Derek mouths along his jawline; Jackson moaning, arching into the touch—are still fresh in his mind. “I’m fine,” he says, and Jackson tightens his grip on him when panic stirs in him and his hands start shaking.

“Yeah, clearly.” Jackson pulls him up so his back rests against the headboard. There’s a pause, a frown. “You’re bleeding.”

“What?”

Jackson runs his thumb under Stiles’ nose and Stiles flinches. “You’re bleeding,” Jackson repeats, and Stiles doesn’t appreciate the tone.

“It’s just a nosebleed,” he says, batting Jackson’s hand away. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know.” Jackson sighs, rubs at his eyes. “I can’t sleep.” Silence hangs in the air for a moment. Stiles opens his mouth, but Jackson’s gaze shuts him up. “I keep seeing these—things. You and Derek. McCall. Lydia. I don’t know if it’s guilt or something else—”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Jackson laughs. “Really? Because it sure looked like it.”

“I—” Stiles groans. “I don’t blame you. I don’t. I just—you should’ve told me.”

“Told you what? About Esther? The spell? I didn’t know.”

“No. About Derek,” Stiles says. “You knew. And you didn’t say anything.”

Jackson shakes his head. “I didn’t think it was important.”

“Are you kidding me? Not important? He turned you into a freaking werewolf and it’s _not important_? It’s fucking important, Jackson. There’s an alpha after you.”

“I can take care of my—”

“Yeah. Because it’s not like people have almost killed you. Twice,” Stiles argues. “Three times if you count Scott ripping your throat when he finds out what happened that night. I don’t care if you’re some kind of weapon of mass destruction. You can’t do this.”

“I’ll find the alpha, Stiles. And when I do,” Jackson says, and he sounds more like the asshole Jackson Stiles has known his entire life, “I’ll kill him.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait, guys. My beta and I were super busy during the holidays, but it's finally here! Any remaining mistakes are mine to blame, because my beta is awesome.
> 
> Enjoy chapter six and happy 2013!
> 
> P.S.: Had some HTML problems to fix, a bunch of words were missing, but it's all good now. Apparently.

Stiles knows how to handle it for the most part. Go to school, avoid Lydia’s suspicious glances, dodge Scott’s questions, stay in detention for telling Harris to leave him the hell alone, and stalk Jackson while he’s not watching. Easy. Just like breathing. Except when it’s not. Except when it has Jackson slipping him an annoyed roll of eyes and cornering him in the locker room. Stiles should be used to this. He should. Pressing people up against a wall is on Jackson’s list of things to do when someone pisses him off. (Especially when it’s Stiles and one of them is half-naked.)

“Don’t make me do this again, Stilinski.”

“And back to a last name basis,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes. “Nice.”

Jackson tilts his head back for a moment before letting it rest on the tiles next to Stiles’ shoulder. “You can’t stop me,” his voice falls to a hiss. “No one can stop me.”

“Yeah. You’re going to kill the alpha, save the city. Be a hero.”

“At least I’m not being an ass about it.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought that title belonged to you, since I’m not the one trying to kill an alpha with who knows how many betas in his pack, alone,” Stiles pauses, arching his eyebrows, and Jackson pulls away, “just because I want to. Yeah. _That_ falls into the being an ass category.”

“I’m the only one strong enough. My bite—”

“Your bite is magical. Whatever. You don’t even know how to use it. You don’t know what it _is_ ,” Stiles says, wiping at his eyes. “Doing this alone will either result in your funeral, which I will attend with an ‘I said so’ sign, for the record, or in you coming back home with at least one limb missing. And I won’t be happy with either scenario, alright?” Stiles eyes dart to Jackson’s lips when his tongue comes out to wet them, and he can’t help but do the same. “Look, I understand that you’re supposed to be the jock every guy hates and every girl wants. It’s a nice little touch on your part. Kind of cliché, but no one gets hurt except you. So, I guess it works. More or less.” Stiles averts his eyes when Jackson’s breath falters. “The point is— _I_ don’t hate you. Not anymore. And that should mean something to you. That should make you stop and think, ‘Oh, hey. Someone cares about me. I won’t get myself killed.’ That’s what a normal—”

“Stilinski.”

“—person would do. Because normal people feel obliged to live past sixteen so they can spend some time with other people who care about them. That’s like, Human Interaction for Dummies—”

“Stiles.”

“—and I don’t care too much for anything else right now, except for ending this year without a dead friend in the process—”

“Stop. Talking.” And Stiles does, because Jackson is too close for comfort, too close to breathe. Too close to speak without it leading to something they’ll both regret later. “I understand,” he says, and Stiles’ insides hurt from the desperation in his eyes, the miserable frown on his brow. “And that’s why I’m doing this, because I _understand._ ”

Jackson has never been good with words, but Stiles understands, too.

***

Another thing Stiles should be used to, but is not, is Derek going Neanderthal on him. It might seem normal to wolf people, but regular people would probably think of calling the cops when some guy comes into their room and kidnaps them at one in the morning. And when he throws them over his shoulder and carries them to an abandoned train car, regular people would probably be worried about their heads ending up in a freezer.

“Clean yourself up,” Derek says, his expression still stone-cold when he tosses a cloth Stiles’ way. Stiles wipes the blood away from his nose and puts it aside. “Are you still having them?”

Stiles gets up from where Derek dropped him on the ground and nods, making his way to Derek. “Yeah. They’re not as bad.”

“Good.”

The metal is smooth, cold against his fingertips as he runs his hand over the arsenal of knives sitting on the table. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?”

“Depends on your definition of serial killer.” Stiles glances up to find a slight upturn of Derek’s lips, and he’s not sure he _doesn’t_ feel like stabbing Derek in the eye anymore. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“Very comforting.”

Derek takes a knife with a curved blade and casually sharpens it as the drums in Stiles’ ears beat faster. “I’m going to train you.”

“You’re—what?” Stiles is tempted to turn and run, but when Derek has a huge dagger in his hand and that wicked smile on his lips, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. “What?”

“You’re Jackson’s pack. If the alpha is after him,” Derek says, “the alpha is after you. You need to take this.”

Stiles’ hand tightens around the wooden handle. “And do what?” 

“And kill me.” Derek cracks his knuckles. “Or at least try.”

***

Stiles steps his foot on grass shining bright under the sun. He tilts his head up to feel the heat on his face, to see the colorful dots swaying on the back of his eyelids. Cherries. He can smell cherries.

“ _Beautiful, isn’t it?_ ” Lydia says, hooking her arm through his.

He glances at her, lets his lips twist into a smile. “Yeah.”

“ _I knew you’d like it,_ ” she says. Her shoulders shake, her hair swings. She’s beautiful like this—eyes soft, a genuine smile set on her lips, no make-up concealing her face. Stiles wants to reach out, to touch her silky skin, to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He doesn’t. He’s never been allowed to. Lydia frowns and his heart skips a beat. “ _What?_ ”

He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just—”

“ _I understand, Stiles,_ ” Lydia whispers against his cheek, holding a finger to his lips. “ _Let me show you._ ”

Her laugh is the most stunning sound he’s ever heard when she tugs on his arm and her knees buckle. Stiles dives into the grass with her and she laughs again, holding his hand as they roll down the hill.

Stiles tries to keep his panic at bay as he shifts under Jackson’s weight. The air feels different against his skin, heavy and humid as Jackson mumbles something unintelligible between kisses and nibbles up his neck. He’s tired. His ankles ache and his eyes are sore, but when Jackson’s hand comes up to brush against a nipple, his entire body electrifies.

Jackson stops, searches for something in his eyes. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes out, not trusting his brain to come up with anything more constructive than that. Jackson’s hair is not as soft as Stiles remembers; his skin not as perfect; his smile not as alive. Still, they fit well together. Like Stiles imagined once, twice. 

He’s not sure how it came to this—to him flipping Jackson around, to Jackson clutching at his shoulders, nails scraping his back as he listens to Jackson’s erratic heartbeat—but it’s right. Feels right. Even when it hurts, even when Jackson’s face starts to fade and Jackson’s muffled “ _Stiles,_ ” turns into someone else’s.

“Stiles!”

Stiles jumps awake, opening eyes he doesn’t remember closing as his fingers wrap around Derek’s arm, holding tight until the ground doesn’t feel like bad gelatin. There’s that annoying buzz in his ears, something he can’t get used to even if it haunts him after every fucked up dream, and everything hurts, everything is on fire.

“You alright?”

Stiles answers with a breathless “Yeah,” that feels like déjà vu but not quite, because this isn’t Jackson. He chuckles, squirming out of Derek’s grip as the world gives one last spin and his nose drips on the cement. “Derek?”

Derek’s expression is somewhere between confused and knowing when Stiles’ head snaps up to glance at him—a paradox Stiles doesn’t even bother frowning upon anymore. “You said it was getting better,” he says, as if accusing Stiles of a capital crime.

“I’m not dreaming about people trying to _kill_ me while having sex with each other. I think I should consider that an improvement.”

“It’s not an improvement if you’re blacking out at random and hemorrhaging through your nose.” Derek arches his eyebrows, nodding at Stiles’ shirt. “You should’ve told me.”

Stiles pretends he doesn’t care about his blood-soaked shirt. Instead, he nods dismissively. “Yeah, but it’s nothing. It’s just a nosebleed.”

“Nothing?” Derek asks, grasping Stiles’ arm when he tries to leave. “It’s your body fighting your mate, Stiles. It’s not _nothing_.”

***

Stiles didn’t think it would be this complicated when he offered to help Jackson, because that’s what he does. That’s what he likes to do. He doesn’t like to think back and wonder what could have been if someone would have just done something.

He also doesn’t like to be this helpless, to feel like he’s the one getting in the way. He doesn’t like asking for help.

“I can’t. I can’t ask her to—” Stiles may not be a werewolf, but he doesn’t have to be to see the anger slipping through Scott’s pores and hanging around them like toxic gas. He understands where it’s coming from, and it’s not about Allison. Scott slumps against a wall. “You’re telling me he raped you and you want me to _help_ him? You want Allison to help him?”

“He didn’t—” a choked laugh escapes Stiles’ chest and he shakes his head. “People have to stop calling it that. Jackson didn’t do anything to me. I really don’t wanna be having this conversation with you, dude, but I enjoyed it, alright? He got me there, if that’s what you’re worried about. It wasn’t rape.”

“You don’t have to protect him. If you didn’t want to—”

“Of course I didn’t want to,” Stiles protests. Scott has that look on his face—the one that says _I know I can stop being pissed now, but I don’t want to_ , and Stiles almost feels like giving him a knee to the chin, but he realizes not everyone can stay calm in a situation like theirs. “Nobody wants to screw a guy with longer claws and more hair than their dogs. I know what you’re thinking, man. He might be an asshole to everyone, but there’s actually more to him than that. At least half the time. And it’s Jackson we’re talking about. He’s not exactly hard to look at.

“It was fucking weird at first. I’ll give you that. I just—I didn’t know what to do. I tried the mountain ash stakes, but that didn’t work. I even tried a candlestick.” A ghost of a smile spreads itself on Scott’s lips. Stiles chuckles. “Yeah. I know. He was all over me before I could use it. He just—he kept shifting. One moment he was this ridiculously good-looking dude, and the other I wanted to get as far away as possible.”

Scott nods, whispers, “Did he hurt you?”

“He might have been a little on the rough side,” Stiles says. “But, hey, the scars are fading.”

“He left scars?”

“Dude.” He points a finger at Scott before Scott can go back to angry mode. “I’ve seen Allison’s work on your neck. Don’t even start.”

“She’s not a werewolf in heat.”

Scott does have a point. “Fair enough.”

Stiles smiles at him and his eyes are softer this time, but Stiles knows there’s a question he doesn’t want to ask. A question he doesn’t want the answer to, but Stiles knows he’ll do it. Sooner or later.

It happens to be later, after Stiles grows tired of waiting and prepares to leave. Scott pulls him into a hug, his chin digging awkwardly into Stiles’ shoulder as he says, “If I don’t do this—?”

He doesn’t finish the question. Stiles doesn’t let him. “The spell will kill me first. And there’s no coming back from that.”

***

A normal day at school feels like winning the lottery.

For some reason, knowing he can die at any time is not as frightening as Stiles thought it would be. Sure, having death breathing down his neck is not exactly a tea party, but it feels good to act like a normal teenager for a change, even if not for long.

At lunch, when Lydia starts complaining about her dessert, Stiles gives her his and her eyebrows shoot up right just before she slips him a smile that makes his stomach flip. Scott playfully elbows him in the ribs and he can’t help but feel accomplished, even though Jackson’s right there, ignoring Lydia for the most part and playing with his food while Danny tries to stir up a conversation.

Stiles bumps his shoulder into Jackson’s, glancing up to meet blue eyes that are too tense, out of place, and barely gives it a thought when his hand covers Jackson’s under the table. He doesn’t miss the puzzled look Danny sends their way, but he doesn’t feel like moving, even if his eyes are fixed on the way Lydia strokes her hair. Jackson’s fingers are trembling under his, clutching hard at denim as Stiles holds on tighter, tries to keep his emotions in check. 

He just wants to touch every strand of perfect strawberry blond hair cascading down Lydia’s shoulders. He wants to slide his hands up taut, smooth biceps until he gets to a chiseled jaw. He wants to press his mouth against a set of red lips. He wants to press a writhing body against a mattress as claws sink into his back. He wants—

He doesn’t know what he wants. 

Jackson’s hand is suddenly fire against him. He wants to get away from Scott’s knowing look, from Danny’s confused frown, from Jackson.

“I need to pee,” he blurts out. Everyone’s eyes are on him. “I just—I’m gonna go.”

And he does. Faster than he can process another thought, because he can’t breathe. His clothes are too much. Air is too much. 

Fuck. 

He leans over a sink. He’s alright. Everything’s alright. He is not going to spit out his stomach. Just no. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles glances up at Jackson in the mirror, barely making an effort to reply, and Jackson’s shoulders slump as he makes his way to where Stiles is hunched over. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really have to. It’s easier this way—silent actions, tense smiles, Jackson’s hands on his hips, turning him around so they’re facing each other.

Jackson is one step away from pressing himself flush against Stiles, and there’s a breath caught in Stiles’ throat, an annoying one that makes him freeze on the spot, watching, waiting. Wanting. Jackson moves closer, enough so his breath tickles Stiles’ upper lip, and Stiles runs his teeth over it.

“You’re bleeding,” Jackson says, just as blood spreads on Stiles’ tongue. He wipes at the blood running from Stiles’ nose with a thumb, a smile set on his lips as he tips his head forward. Stiles’ hand flies to the back of Jackson’s neck, pulling him closer as he fists Stiles’ shirt and—

Jesus Christ.

“Jackson,” Stiles breathes out. “I can’t—we can’t—”

“Don’t. Don’t screw this up.” Jackson catches Stiles’ lower lip between sharp teeth, running his tongue over the abused skin before letting it go and whispering against Stiles’ mouth, “I’m not letting you die. I’m not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is much appreciated, as always. <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while, but it's the longest chapter yet, folks. 
> 
> Enjoy and, as always, feedback is much appreciated!

Stiles has been dancing around Lydia for years. The unspoken rules were simple—don’t stare at her, don’t talk to her, don’t ask her out because you don’t deserve her. Still, he kept on breaking them. He kept on loving her, wanting her to notice him for even a split second, but she never did. Jackson was, still is, her everything. Her trophy. Her safe haven. 

She might play tough, throwing around ice-cold smiles disguised as heartfelt ones, swaying through the halls in high heels and short dresses while pretending to be on top of the world, but Stiles sees through it. He’s always been able to. 

He can see through Jackson too, sometimes, but Jackson doesn’t pretend, not with her. He ignores. He avoids. And Stiles watches, has been watching for a long time. (Lydia more than Jackson, for obvious reasons that are not as crystal clear anymore.) 

Stiles ~~did~~ does it out of love for Lydia, but not for Jackson. For Jackson, it’s out of _Stiles and Jackson_ , which is more of a fucked up version of _Jackson and Lydia_ and _Stiles and Lydia_. If Jackson and Lydia were still a thing, it would turn into Jackson and Lydia, and perfect children, and a six-bedroom house. Stiles and Lydia, on the other hand, has never been anything more than a fairy tale only Stiles has ever thought possible. 

Stiles and Jackson is prone to turn into Stiles and Jackson, and dysfunctional relationships, and witches and spells, and blood and death. Stiles and Jackson has already turned into that.

Stiles doesn’t know why he thinks it’s a good idea to tell his dad, “Yeah. I am,” when his dad asks him if he’s still dating that ‘girl’, but he does. It sounds like a good idea, considering. It sounds like it could be Stiles and Jackson, and late-night visits, and cult movies with whiskey and marshmallows, and make-out sessions that will make Stiles feel awkward and guilty and hot all over.

“I know I’m not around much lately,” says his dad, sitting on the couch with a few files in hand, “but I’d like to meet her sometime.”

Stiles nods, eyes fixed on the TV as Morgan Freeman talks about wormholes and time travel. His hand tightens around the cell phone sitting on his lap. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

His eyes go from intergalactic space to police records, to his dad’s arched eyebrows. “What?”

“Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“Nope. I’m fine.”

“Doesn’t look like it.”

His dad is right. He’s not. He’s not fine, and a dying man can’t exactly afford to waste time over-thinking every second that goes by.

“I need a second,” he says, and is out the door in a beat. Sitting on his front porch, he dials Jackson’s number with sweaty, trembling hands. _Ring. Ring._ “Pick up.”

“Hey.”

Or don’t pick up. Stiles holds the phone away from his ear for a second. Rain starts wetting his shoes. “Hey,” he whispers, voice tight. He glances up at dark clouds. More confident, this time, “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. I just—I wanted to apologize. For panicking and running like a girl. For everything.” Jackson’s laugh isn’t resentful. Stiles half smiles. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s not your fault. There’s too much going on right now and I—I wasn’t thinking.”

Stiles swallows around nothing. His feet drum against damp wood with soft thuds. “You should stop thinking more often.”

He can hear the smile in Jackson’s words, “I think I’ve heard that somewhere before.”

“Yeah. Me too—”

Stiles’ head snap back when the front door opens. “For God’s sake, Stiles. Just go over there.” And his reflex is fast enough to catch the keys his dad throws at him. “Go.”

His brain takes a moment to process the information, but when it does, he doesn’t bother giving Jackson the heads up. He hops into his Jeep, tossing his phone onto the passenger seat, and drives. He’s over at Jackson’s in record time, knocking on the door until his knuckles hurt, but nothing happens after a while.

Stiles takes a step back, standing under the rain as he tries to get a look inside. “Jackson!” Still nothing. “Fuck,” he mumbles, walking over to his car to get his phone. Jackson picks up on the first ring. “Open the door.”

“What?”

“I’m about to get pneumonia out here. Just open the damned door.”

Jackson’s head appears through a window and he curses under his breath, “You’re fucking unbelievable, Stilinski.”

“Yeah,” Stiles fires back before shoving his phone in his pocket. Jackson opens the door as Stiles is wringing his soaked shirt, wearing a ridiculous frown on his face. Stiles smiles, runs a hand through his wet hair. “Hi.”

Jackson’s about to either interrogate him or call him stupid; his best option is obviously to tug on Jackson’s shirt and pull him into a kiss before that can happen. Jackson crashes hard against him, a startled whimper escaping his lips as his chest bumps into Stiles’. 

For the first time in a long time, it has nothing to do with Lydia. That, right there, is all Jackson. It’s Jackson’s cologne, and Jackson’s touch, and Jackson’s taste. It drops like a bomb Stiles never saw coming, exploding loud in his ears and shaking him to the core.

“Can’t breathe,” Jackson complains between kisses on their way up the stairs, and Stiles tightens his hold on him, pushing him farther up. “Stiles, I can’t—”

Stiles only stops to reply, “Personal space is overrated,” because it is. Jackson grins down at him and he smiles back, throwing Jackson up against his bedroom door once they get there. A flush spreads on Jackson’s face and his freckles shine in contrast, making Stiles pulls away to make a cheesy comment about it, but Jackson is the one who shuts him up this time.

The moment Stiles’ hands fly to Jackson’s jeans, Jackson rests their foreheads together, fingers wrapping around Stiles’ wrists, and mutters, “Not so fast, Stilinski,” and holy fucking shit—his last name has never sounded so hot.

Jackson shoves at his shoulders hard enough to make him lose balance, and he does, but Jackson is quick to catch him before he can fall, pushing him further away until the back of his knees hit the mattress. Stiles takes a deep breath when Jackson makes him sit back and watch as he loses his t-shirt, and Stiles’ eyes follow as it lands on the floor. Before he knows it, he has a lap full of Jackson; hands pulling at his clothes, demanding, wanting, an eager mouth sucking on his neck as a Jackson rips his shirt apart.

“You wear too many fucking clothes,” Jackson says. 

Stiles laughs, letting his hands wander around Jackson’s back, and replies, “Yeah, now shut up and do something about it.”

Jackson breathes out a hot sigh against Stiles’ mouth. He doesn’t have to be told twice.

***

Stiles emerges from water. Lightning echoes loud in his ears as he strives to draw air into his starved lungs. Fingers wrap around his ankles and everything turns blue again—dark, filthy blue stained with red. His hands tangle in algae and human hair as he fights for survival, his feet kicking at Esther’s hands. Her presence is like death around him, pulling him down until his lungs expand and fill with blood and water in a pointless effort to breathe.

There’s a familiar grasp on his wrist, heat overcoming him as Jackson lifts his body from the ocean and lays him down on the shore. Jackson nods at the dismembered bodies floating in the water. Stiles squints at it, fighting the sudden urge to vomit as—

“Scott—he—oh, God. Fuck.” Jackson nods faintly, his eyes dropping to Stiles’ face as tears prickle Stiles’ eyes. “Fuck, Jackson—”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t save them.” Allison. Lydia. His dad. Everyone. “I chose to save you.”

“What?” Stiles shouts, shoving at Jackson’s chest. “You should’ve saved them. Not me. _Them._ You—I can’t—I—fuck.”

“ _Fix it, Stiles_ ,” Derek says, leaning toward Jackson. His claws linger over Jackson’s throat. “ _Or you know what’ll happen._ ”

“Please, don’t.” Stiles wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Please. I can fix it. He’s all I’ve got. I can fix it. He’s—” the words get stuck in his throat as Derek’s mouth twist into a smirk. There’s a sudden, steady beat ringing in his ears. He opens his mouth to beg for Jackson’s life when he recognizes the noise against his ear as Jackson’s heartbeat. 

Stiles flinches awake to find himself lying across Jackson’s chest, a hand curled up next to Jackson’s face and Jackson’s arms around his torso. He tries to ease away, but Jackson’s grip on him tightens and he aims for a casual, unflustered chuckle without succeeding. 

“Hey,” Jackson says after a protesting groan, without opening his eyes. Stiles raises his head to take a quick look at their current state of undress. Apparently, nothing happened. Huh. “You feeling better?”

“Now that I’m not drowning in an ocean of dead bodies, literally, yeah. I’m fine,” he says and, at Jackson’s confused frown, he adds, “Bad dream.”

Jackson nods, untangling himself from Stiles, and reaches over to the nightstand. “You’re still bleeding.”

Still? “Oh,” Stiles replies, taking the piece of cloth that looks strangely like the remains of his shirt.

“Sorry. It was the first thing I saw.”

“It’s not like it wasn’t already ruined.” Jackson laughs an easy sound that rings true to Stiles’ ears. Stiles grins. “I guess it wasn’t exactly exciting to have me black out and start bleeding during our little shenanigan, either. I forgive you, dude.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t say so.”

“I’ll try not to do that the next time.”

Jackson’s tone is almost hopeful when he asks, “Next time?”

Stiles shrugs, bumping his shoulder into Jackson’s. “Yeah. Next time.”

***

Much to his surprise, the day after is better than Stiles was expecting (and knowing Jackson, it wasn’t much. He sets a really low standard when it comes to that). Scott keeps sniffing him and shooting him weird glances, which should be enough to turn his awesome day into a not-so-awesome day, but it’s not. Even when Scott follows him to the bathroom one time and this piece of conversation happens—

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you did.”

“I would have, but no. I didn’t.”

“I won’t have to kill anyone, then?”

“Nope.”

“Good.”

“Your newly found interest in my sex life is worrying, Scott.”

“Shut up.”

—it’s not enough to ruin the day. If anything, it only takes it to a new level of normalcy Stiles finds invigorating after being cast a spell upon, mating with a wolf, and having to suffer through innumerous disturbing events in his dreams. 

At lunch, when everyone gathers around a table and Stiles is left to choose between being sandwiched by Scott and Lydia or Jackson and Danny, and he chooses the latter, the amount of sly smiles and puzzled frowns he receives puts a grin on his face. After lunch, when he and Jackson skip History and he’s pulled into the janitor’s closet for a few awkward kisses and some ass-grabbing he’s not sure he’s used to, his day gets even better.

Stiles doesn’t know how it happens, but somewhere in the middle of secretive glances during class and a second awkward, quick fumble in the janitor’s closet, Lydia manages to figure out what’s going on. He’s aware that she’s far more intelligent than she lets on, but he was hoping he would not get caught pressed up against an unbelievable variety of brooms and mops with a hand under Jackson’s shirt, mouth sucking on Jackson’s neck as practiced fingers play with the buttons on his jeans.

He’s pretty sure his neurons are firing around in random circles at this point, because he can’t do much except feel hornier and more than a little guilty, because this is Lydia, his Lydia, watching him make out with _her_ Jackson. 

Jackson is the one who steps back, wipes at his mouth as Lydia makes a horrified sound in her throat, and shoots Stiles a look that falls somewhere in the _don’t say a fucking word_ category. 

“ _You._ ” Lydia brings a hand to her chest, her eyebrows drawn together as the door closes behind her. “And Jackson.”

Stiles, being Stiles— 

“Sitting in a tree. Yes.”

—and if Jackson was repressing his asshole side with him before, now is probably the moment he’ll stop doing it.

“I can explain—” Jackson starts, but Lydia lifts an accusing finger his way before he can come up with a half-assed excuse.

“Explain what? You dumped me over a _text_ message, started dating that freak, and now you’re making out with Stiles. It’s crystal clear to me—you’re a jerk. And an idiot.” She glares at Stiles. “Don’t even get me started on you. You went from being hopelessly in love with me to feeling Jackson up in a broom closet. You sure stepped it up a notch, hm?” Lydia drops her gaze, shaking her head as a smile shows on her face. “Jesus.”

Stiles bites down hard onto his tongue, his eyes staring down at Jackson, who slumps against a wall, hands covering his face as he mutters a resigned “I’m sorry,” that Stiles is not sure Lydia even hears. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, her brow creased in clear confusion, and Stiles wants to reach out and smooth that frown away from her face.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m sorry. I just—” her smile softens. “I wish you two the best.”

His day goes downhill from there. 

He’s about to go home when he sees an unusual amount of people hunched over in the parking lot. Unfortunately, his brain fails to tell him something’s wrong. Jackson is standing there with his face drained and hands shaking, eyes fixed on whatever it is, but that’s still not enough to make him stop and think twice before shoving at people to get a look at it himself.

Esther’s naked and butchered body is lying on the asphalt with the words _5 days_ carved into her chest as blood drizzles from the wound. His mouth goes dry and his head starts pounding so hard he’s sure it’s going to explode, but then there are hands on his shoulders, pulling him back and away from the mess. Everything’s black and white all of a sudden, moving in slow-motion, except for the liquid red dripping down his shirt, shining bright and flowing like a river.

Derek pushes him and Jackson into a car, drives for he doesn’t know how long, and the pounding is getting louder by the minute. His head lolls back against the seat and his eyes flutter closed. The only thing keeping him conscious is Jackson’s hand on his, cold but unyielding. His eyes open to find the abandoned train car again, Derek leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest as his eyes scan around the place. Stiles twists his head to get a look at Jackson, Scott, and Allison.

He speaks before anyone can, “I’m fine. I’m fine.”

The next few minutes go by in a rush, Derek’s words barely registering as he cleans himself up. There’s a heated argument going on between Derek and Jackson, he can tell, but he doesn’t pay attention. Except when Derek comes flying against the nearest wall and Jackson’s growl echoes in his ears.

“He stays alive,” Jackson snarls, baring his teeth at Derek.

Derek picks himself up from the collapsed wall, turning into his wolf as he gets on all fours and bares his teeth back. “You’re already killing him. He’ll die either way.”

Soon, it turns into a mess of claws and sharp teeth that Stiles can’t even process straight, but he wants to make it stop. Scott does it before he can (he’s sure he would have died prematurely in the middle of it, so thank God for that), his claws sinking into Derek and Jackson’s chest and his palms rest flat against them. 

“This is not what we’re here for.” Jackson bats away at his arm, turning around to stroll to a corner, and Derek slowly turns back, but doesn’t seem any less inclined to gnaw Jackson’s head off. Scott sighs, slipping Stiles a tired smile as he walks back to where Allison is, circling her waist with an arm before adding, “You owe us an explanation.”

Derek does what he does best, which is make an angry face in the hopes someone will drop the subject, but when he only receives intent stares in return, his shoulders sag and he wipes at his face.

“She hadn’t been in touch for a while,” he says. “The alpha got to her. That’s the only explanation.”

“What?” Stiles snorts. “That’s not even _an_ explanation. Do we seriously have to have the talk again, Derek? You tell us what’s going on, we solve it. The end.”

“That carving on her chest,” Jackson pipes in. “It reeked of wolfsbane. She’s not a wolf, it doesn’t affect her.”

Derek nods. “That means we’re having a trip to the morgue tonight.”

Allison’s eyebrows shoot up. “The morgue?”

Stiles does not like the look on Derek’s face. Like, at all.

“Let’s say we’re doing an autopsy.”

Yeah. Definitely not liking it.

***

Stiles feels like he’s in a very gruesome, very cheap horror movie. He’s half-expecting a zombie to come groaning, “Brains, brains,” after their asses in that endless hallway. All of a sudden, being with three werewolves doesn’t seem so safe anymore. Imagine zombie werewolves. Yeah.

“Oh, my God,” he mutters. “Oh, my fucking God. Do we really have to do this? I think I’m gonna puke. I’m gonna puke.”

Turns out Jackson’s roll of eyes is pretty audible in the dark. “We’re not even there yet.”

“But we will. In a few minutes. And I will not dig inside her dead body to find a message that might not even be there.”

“It will be there,” Derek says.

“Yeah, because a maniac alpha is very reliable.”

“Guys,” Scott whispers. “I think I heard something.”

“What? Right now?”

“Ssh!” Stiles never thought he could stay so still, but, fortunately, he can. If this were indeed a horror movie, he would play a pretty convincing dead guy. After a moment, Scott adds, “Get up from the floor.”

Eyes. Rolling. “Are you kidding me, Stilinski?”

“If they think I’m dead, I’m less likely to actually get killed. It’s a perfectly legitimate technique, alright?”

“Just get up, you idiot,” Derek says in a loud whisper. 

“I’ll be the only one attending your funerals.”

Looking at frozen dead bodies is not as bad as it sounds like. Of course, it gets tiring after the tenth one, but it’s not long after that they find Esther’s. Derek slides her out of the cold chamber and drops her onto the autopsy table, grabbing a scalpel to start cutting. Stiles looks away because, seriously, it’s not exactly something fun to look at. The squishy sounds Derek is making are disgusting enough without watching.

Allison grabs his hand as Scott and Jackson help Derek in his scavenger hunt, and he’s afraid to come out of there with several broken fingers. Until Derek mutters an accomplished “Got it,” and Stiles can’t help himself but look.

Maybe it was _not_ a good idea... He’s pretty sure he’s fainting.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter eight is here, and the rating has gone up! Just to be safe, mostly, but I've been too mean to them - the boys deserve a distraction. (Not that I've stopped being mean. I can't help it, sorry.)
> 
> Thank you to my beta, who's been awesome since the beginning, but extra-awesome in this chapter. We are both working very hard to speed things up, but life tends to get in the way.
> 
> So, thank you guys for all the love - be it in kudos, comments or bookmarks. Special thanks to Firefly!
> 
> Enjoy.

Stiles’ body has _got_ to stop doing this to him. Some time or another he’ll end up getting a concussion and beating Jackson’s record of hospital stays, and that’s not on his bucket list. Reading a note taken out of a girl’s body after he recovers enough to be able to stand is also not on said list, but that box has already been checked and cannot be unchecked.

“This is disgusting,” Stiles says, plugging his nose with one hand while the other holds the blood-stained paper between his thumb and index finger.

Derek’s eyebrows knit close together as he leans over it. “He wants Jackson.”

“How can you even read that?”

“It’s archaic Latin. My—” Derek pauses. “Someone used to teach me, but I can’t read the rest.”

Stiles lets out a sigh. “That’s great. That’s just great. And now what?”

“The plan’s still valid.”

“Plan? What plan?” Stiles flinches when everyone’s eyes fly in his direction. “The one that had Jackson almost killing you? I’m pretty sure I wasn’t listening.”

“How do you put up with him?” Derek says to Scott, who shrugs and half smiles when Stiles glares at him. “The bond is affecting Jackson as well, and there’s no getting around a mating bond unless one of you is dead. If Jackson dies, we’re all dead. The alpha will destroy us. If you’re dead, on the other hand, there’s a way around it, but we need someone to cast a spell.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard, but I think there’s a plot hole somewhere in there.” At Derek’s frown, Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed—that someone is _dead_ and currently lying on an autopsy table. And that brings me to another point—someone just put her away. Please? This entire place is starting to smell like decaying blood cells.”

Derek glances at Scott and nods at Esther’s body. Stiles’ eyes follow him, but Derek snaps Stiles out of his trance, “If there’s someone, anyone, with a connection strong enough with either of you, the spell is going to work. That someone isn’t dead.”

“Yeah, but that someone is pissed at us,” Stiles argues, gesturing between him and Jackson. “I’m pretty sure she’d throw a party if she knew I’m about to die.”

“Lydia’s our only choice.” 

“No. You can’t—no.” Derek’s eyes lock on Jackson’s face. Stiles shifts in his seat. Jackson crosses his arms over his chest. “Figure something else out.”

Derek takes a long breath. “You’re not the center of the universe, Jackson. I would happily kill _you_ instead of Stiles and solve our problem, but we can’t do that.”

“I could cast the spell,” Allison says, stepping between Derek and Jackson, leaning closer to inspect the note. “It can’t be that hard.” 

“Are you in love with either of them?” Derek asks, his tone setting off all kinds of alarms in Stiles’ brain. Allison gives Scott a look before shaking her head. “Then you can’t do it. We need Lydia.”

Stiles looks up to see Jackson’s jaw set tight, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as his feet drum against the tiles. He can almost hear the words fighting to slide past Jackson’s lips, but he grabs Jackson by the arm before this whole plan-discussing turns into a bloodbath, dragging him past the door and back to the dark hallway.

“I’m going to do this,” he says. As Jackson is opening his mouth to object, he adds, “You wouldn’t even care a few months ago.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? Because it sure seemed like it when you were trying to show me how great of an asshole you could be.”

“I would have cared, Stiles.” Jackson pauses, takes a breath. “Even before all of this happened. I’m not that big of an asshole.”

“Fine, but you heard Derek. I’m already dying. You don’t have a say in this. _I_ don’t have a say in this. Just—” Okay, weird territory ahead. “Do this for me. For us—I don’t know. Just let me do this.”

“I can’t let them kill you.”

“Oh, my God, dude.” Stiles rubs at his eyes, fighting the urge to slap Jackson in the face. “That’s already happening. Stop ignoring the facts. My body’s rejecting you—unless one of us is dead, _I’m_ dead. Get it? If Derek has a better idea, we’ll take it. I’m a walking corpse. I can’t exactly afford to be picky.”

The outline of Jackson’s neck stretches in the dark, his shoulders roll back. A sigh escapes his lips. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets, bites the inside of his cheek as he waits for the snarky remark. It never comes, but he can feel the hesitation slipping through Jackson’s pores when Jackson takes one, two steps closer until he has Stiles up against his chest. Stiles doesn’t dare say a thing.

“Fine,” Jackson says, “but if anyone screws up—”

“They won’t.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I’m not,” is the only ~~ir~~ rational thought Stiles can come up with when Jackson’s lips ghost over his mouth. 

They’ve done this before. It shouldn’t be this painful; it shouldn’t feel like the world is crashing around him, like his knees are weak and his hands sweating, because Stiles already knows what it’s like. He’s done all of Jackson’s rough-make-outs-against-a-wall routine. _This_ shouldn’t be any different.

Except it is. 

It is because Jackson is pressing soft, slow kisses along his neck, teeth scraping his skin in every other one, followed by a quick swipe of his tongue. Because Stiles’ lips part to let a moan free, his hands clenching inside his pockets as he tilts his head to make it easier for Jackson. Because the kisses soon trail up his jawline and teeth sink into his earlobe.

He’s sure Scott and Derek’s werewolf senses are getting all of it in surround sound, but his one half that doesn’t care makes him let out a breathy, “Jackson—” that doesn’t quite compute with his brain. Engaging in exhibitionism in a morgue is an entirely new level of screwed up for them, Stiles is aware of that, but the devil on his shoulder is definitely kicking that little angel’s ass.

He doesn’t give a damn.

“What are you—?”

“You started it.”

Jackson doesn’t look like he will shut up anytime soon, so Stiles does it for him. Jackson’s lips are quick to part and his hands quick to dig into Stiles’ hips as Stiles’ fingers sink into his hair, giving it soft tugs and making him moan around Stiles’ tongue. Jackson’s hands get between them, but he doesn’t pull away. Stiles helps him undo the buttons on his shirt and then shrugs away from his own. He has to agree with Jackson on one thing—he wears too many fucking clothes.

“Get it off,” Jackson says in a loud whisper, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. Stiles nods, lifting his arms so Jackson can get rid of it. Jackson’s breathing slows from a pant to a steady sigh, his hands skimming down Stiles’ chest to get to his jeans. He glances up at Stiles with wolf-blue eyes, as if waiting for permission, and Stiles nods.

“Can you control it?”

Jackson’s voice falters, “I—yeah.”

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes, and holds tight onto his consciousness. Now is a good time for his body to start listening to him. “I’m not—”

“Just go with it.”

He can do that—oh. Oh. Jesus Christ. 

Jackson’s chuckle is almost enough to make him go from horny to angry in less than a minute, but then Jackson flips him around, fingers wrapping tighter around his cock as his forehead rests against the wall. Teeth nibble at his shoulder, yanking an audible “Fuck,” out of him, and Jackson’s other hand comes up to cover his mouth.

“I know how much you like to talk, Stilinski,” Jackson whispers against his ear. A pause. A quick breath. “But you need to shut up.”

And if anyone asks later, Stiles did not just whimper against Jackson’s hand as Jackson’s fingers pull at his cock faster, harder, and his hips thrust up to increase friction. He’ll deny it for the rest of his life, because as light headed as he feels and as skilled as Jackson’s fingers are when his thumb runs over the head of Stiles’ cock, he shouldn’t be doing this. 

_They_ shouldn’t be doing this.

Stiles says so, only to have Jackson spin him around and drop to his knees in front of him. “Please, don’t do this to me. Oh, God. Jackson—”

Yeah, a little too late for protest.

Jackson gets his mouth off Stiles’ cock long enough to say, “You need to stop _thinking_ , Stiles,” and then it’s warm heaven again, tongue rolling on the head once, twice before Jackson’s lips are wrapped around the base.

Back and forth. Back and forth. 

Stiles wants to watch. He _has_ to watch, but all he can see are smudges and shadows and Jackson’s eyes glowing blue as they stare up at him. It’s hard to keep quiet, it’s hard to stop thinking about Jackson’s mouth on his cock, and Jackson’s nails digging on the back of his thighs, and Jackson’s needy, soft moans as he sucks harder.

Fucking hell.

Stiles lets him fingers close around strands of Jackson’s hair, more to ground himself than anything. His breathing grows into pants and his knees get weak, but not for the right reasons. Stupid fucking Esther and stupid shitty spell she cast on them.

“Jackson,” Stiles breathes out, letting his head roll back against the wall, “I can’t. I can’t do this.”

But Jackson doesn’t budge. Instead, as his head moves back, he wraps a hand around Stiles’ cock and pumps in time with Stiles’ erratic thrusts. Stiles is coming apart, mind and body, hands clinging to the wall as he tries to stay awake and in control, and when it finally hits him, making his toes curl and his muscles spasm, he’s thankful for not being thrown into another dream.

“Fuck.” He slumps to the floor, leaning forward to let his mouth crash onto Jackson’s. “You taste weir—oh. Shit. I’m sorry. Here,” he says, grabbing the first piece of clothing he can find. Jackson hands it back to him after a moment, and he chuckles. “Should I return the favor?”

“Not right now.”

Stiles nods, picking himself up from the floor and pulling his jeans back on. It’s only when they gather all of their clothes that he realizes Jackson’s shirt is the unfortunate ‘piece of clothing’.

“Uh, Jackson?”

“What?”

“Your shirt’s all sticky.”

Jackson’s tone is not amused. “You didn’t.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not wearing that,” Jackson fires at him, taking a step back.

“Yeah, because you coming back in there shirtless will work beautifully.” Stiles thrust the shirt at him, raising his eyebrows. “Come on.”

Jackson makes a disgusted face, but takes it without putting up a fight. Stiles grins, sliding his own clothes back on, and pushes through the metal doors. Allison is sitting in a corner, phone in her ear and a crimson blush spreading on her cheeks as Scott feigns indifference.

Stiles lets his eyes slip closed. Oh, right—

“You might want to do that somewhere more appropriate the next time,” Derek says, more seriously than Stiles would have thought. “And Jackson should probably set that shirt on fire.”

***

Stiles yawns, letting his cheek rest against his forearm as Harris goes on and on about chemically modified electrodes. Late night activities in the morgue have proven to be more exhausting than the average person might think.

“Your dad’s talking to Allison.”

“What?” Stiles twists his neck to get a look at Scott. Scott cocks an eyebrow, nodding toward the window, and Stiles shifts in his seat, knocking over a few pens and pencils in the process. “Sorry,” he mutters when an icy stare is sent his way. Turning to Scott, he whispers, “Can you hear them?”

Scott frowns, leaning closer to the window. “Barely.”

“Good enough.”

“It’s about Esther. And Kate.”

“Kate? The psycho Kate?” 

Scott nods and Stiles attempts a look at Jackson, who frowns, mouthing, “What?” his way, and he takes a breath, gestures for Jackson to wait.

“He thinks she’s tied to the murder somehow.”

“She’s been missing for months. How can that—” The alpha? “You think she’s—?”

“I don’t know.”

“Mr. McCall. Mr. Stilinski. Detention at three.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Detention, Mr. Stilinski, at three.”

“You see, I can’t do that. I have an—”

“Then again at four.”

Yeah, Derek is going to kill him. “Got it,” he mutters, hitting his pencil on the desk. Harris spares him a sly smile before turning his back to the class. A paper ball hits him square on the head just as he’s about to start writing on the blackboard, and he turns around looking ready to aid Derek in Stiles’ murder. “I didn’t do it,” Stiles says, throwing his hands in the air.

“I did.”

Harris stares at Jackson as if the world is going to end at any minute now. “You?”

“Yeah,” Jackson reiterates. “Me. I did it.”

“Then maybe you should join these two morons, Mr. Whittemore.”

***

Jackson’s last-minute scheme doesn’t quite go as planned. Harris doesn’t even let them _breathe_ without earning a glare for making too much noise, let alone talk about their newest found problem, so they resort to passing notes. (And Scott’s handwriting might as well be in Swedish, because Stiles can’t understand shit.)

“I can see you,” Harris announces after a moment, without taking his eyes away from whatever essays he’s grading, and the three of them freeze on the spot. “I take it you are aware of that.”

“Um, no?” Stiles offers, crumpling the paper they were writing on and throwing it over his shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

Harris pushes his glasses further up his nose and slumps in his seat. “You’re distracting, Mr. Stilinski, and I have work to do. Go home.”

“I can be distracting,” Scott pipes in. “I’m being distracting right now.”

“I am going to do you all a favor and pretend I didn’t see you leaving this room through that door,” says Harris, pointing to the exit with a pen. “And I expect nothing less than a B on yours tests next week.”

“Tests?”

“Don’t make me regret this, Mr. McCall.”

“No one’s regretting anything today.” Stiles grabs Scott by the back of his collar and shoves him toward the door. “I was never here.”

“Me neither,” Jackson says, just as they’re leaving. “And I wouldn’t trust McCall to get that B any time soon.”

The entire ride to Derek’s little training center is Stiles telling his two idiot friends to shut up, Scott trying to convince Jackson that he can and he will get that B, and Jackson complaining about the lack of space in Stiles’ Jeep and looking way too pretty. Not that Stiles doesn’t have his eyes on the road.

“You’re late,” Derek says once they step foot inside the warehouse. He barely glances up at them, choosing to sharpen a knife instead.

“I don’t even know why I’m here in the first place,” Stiles fires back. “You’re going to kill me one way or another. I should have the privilege of enjoying what’s left of my life while I can.”

“The only thing you’re enjoying today,” Derek says and smiles a smile that’s way too wide to be genuine, thrusting the knife in Stiles’ hand, “is this.”

Stiles takes a deep breath at Derek’s not-so-weak slap on his shoulder, and smiles back. Son of a bitch. “Always the charmer, aren’t you? I just love this.”

“I know, Stiles.” Derek throws his arms over Stiles and Jackson’s shoulder. “And while we’re at it, I think you should meet our new friends.”

“New friends?” Derek’s fingertips dig into his shoulder and his head snaps forward. Oh, God. What did Derek do? “I’m sorry—what exactly are they doing here?”

Stiles tightens his hold on the knife. Just in case. Derek says nothing, only makes his way to Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, and puts his sour face back on. 

Erica certainly has boobs. Huh.

“Hello, Stiles,” she says, her mouth contorting into a lopsided, evil grin.

Stiles turns his head to whisper in Jackson’s ear, “Is this _Erica_ Erica or a hotter sister I never found out about?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s her,” Jackson answers, but his tone is definitely not amused. He shoots Stiles a death-stare.

Hey, that’s new. “Are you jealous?”

“I don’t know, Stiles. Do I feel like killing you right now?”

Stiles’ mouth opens. “I—don’t know? Hopefully not? Because there _are_ some sexual favors I still have to return.”

“ _Stiles_.”

Stiles sighs, letting his eyes trail back to the new trio. “Alright, Derek. Explanation time.”

“Manpower.”

“That’s very enlightening. Thank you—”

“I’m late, I know. I know. I’m sorry,” Allison says between short breaths. “I had to—uh. I brought Lydia. Is there something going on?”

Yeah. Just when it couldn’t get worse. “Oh, look. Plus one.” Stiles nods in Allison’s general direction. “It’s going to be one hell of a training day.”

***

Stiles’ eyes roam over the woods as the first raindrops spatter on the ground. He rubs a hand over his eyes and forehead, wincing when a nail scrapes the newest cut near his hairline. He licks the blood away from his finger, letting his shoulders slump against the wall as his lungs fill with air that smells like wet dirt and leaves.

“That’s going to leave a scar.”

He tilts his head to get a look at Lydia, and lets a small smile show. Lydia smiles back, taking a seat next to him on the cement. She clasps her hands together, squeezes them between her thighs as she stretches her legs.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, wiping his hand on his jeans.

She nods. “I don’t blame you.” He stares at her. “For being with Jackson. I’m sorry for lashing out at you that day. I had no idea—”

“Allison told you.”

“Yeah, she did. I’m sorry.” Lydia tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know it seems like I never gave you much thought over the years, but there was never room for anyone else. I know how good a person you are, and I’m so, so sorry for ignoring you. I just wish—”

Stiles can’t understand anything after that, only sobs and hiccups he wishes weren’t directed at him. He flings an arm around her shoulders—slowly, carefully—and her eyebrows soften, her mouth curves back up. It’s not how he imagined placing a kiss to her temple and smoothing over her hair, but it’s good enough. It doesn’t have to be anything else. He doesn’t want it to be.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Derek’s plan is going to work and you’ll look like an idiot after I come back to haunt you.”

Her laugh sets things right. She wipes away at the tears. “I wouldn’t want that.”

“Nope. Your Latin skills have made you look like a genius. You wouldn’t want to ruin _that_.”

“You’re right.” She nods.

“How’s Allison’s shot?”

“Very accurate. I don’t think she’ll miss it.”

“She better not. My life depends on it.” Stiles lets go of her and she smiles before placing a wet kiss on his cheek and taking him by the hand. 

Allison is still shooting targets once they step back inside, sweat running down her face as she hits one by one square in the middle. Erica stops to slip him a smirk just as Scott leaps from a stack of wooden boxes and lands on top of her, teeth bared and eyes glowing amber. Stiles doesn’t want to see the end of that.

“Derek,” he calls out, walking over to where Derek is with Jackson, Boyd and Isaac. Lydia gives his hand a quick squeeze and strolls away.

“You okay?” Jackson asks, brushing his fingers against Stiles’ once he’s close enough. Stiles nods, leaning toward Jackson until they’re touching from leg to hip.

“Yeah. I’m good to go again.” 

Derek tosses him a bigger knife and he catches it on reflex, bumping his shoulder into Jackson’s before heading back outside. The rain is pouring harder, its sound increasing to a deafening roar by the moment he steps his foot on the mud. His toes curl and he raises his arms, preparing for the imminent hit.

“Don’t let your guard down,” Derek’s growl echoes around the trees. Stiles swallows around nothing, following the swift shadow running around him in small circles. “No matter what they say or do, Stiles. Never let your guard down.” 

Stiles rolls the knife around in his palm, fingers brushing over the cold metal and tightening around the wooden handle. As red eyes appear in his peripheral vision, he slashes upright, listening to the sound of skin tearing as blood sprays on his face and Derek hides back into the woods. Lightning strikes nearby and Stiles jumps, losing his footing and hitting the mud with a splash. He closes his eyes as saliva drips on his face and his fingers wrap around the wolf’s neck. His free hand closes around the knife blade when he finds it, and he plunges it in Derek’s neck despite the pain as it slices his palm.

Derek growls down at him, eyes going back to their true color as he shifts back to human form. Stiles crawls away until a tree hits his shoulder blades and tears prickle his eyes as he tries to stop the bleeding on his hand. 

“You okay?” Jackson asks, kneeling by his side as Isaac and Boyd lift Derek from the ground and drag him into the warehouse. Stiles’ breath gets stuck in his throat, but he nods, letting Jackson’s arm slide behind his back and pick him up.

“What happened?” Lydia cries out from the other side of the warehouse, running to them as Jackson lays Stiles down on the floor.

Stiles chuckles. “You should see the other guy.”

“I am seeing the other guy,” she says, crossing her arms. “He doesn’t seem as bad as you.”

“What?” And there it is—Derek as good as new. “Are you kidding me? Oh, come on. You’re no fun at all, dude.”

Isaac smirks, throwing Derek a look before turning back to Stiles. “That wasn’t bad for an idiot like you, but Derek has a soft spot for idiots. Tomorrow, Boyd and I won’t be that... understanding. Right, Boyd?”

Boyd tilts his head to the side. “No, we won’t.”

Yeah. Detention doesn’t sound like a bad idea.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wheeeeeeeee chapter 9! UnholyConfessions is on an adventure this weekend so this is being posted by her beta, @Riven. I have never posted anything before this so if I made some glaring error please let me know and I'll fix it.
> 
> And my apologies if this chapter is later than you'd hoped, I had a real world freak out and was not available for UC (and thank you so so much my bb for helping me talk it through, you have my <3 and devotion, despite the pickles).
> 
>    
>  _Yay, babe. Thank you so much for posting this. Looks like you didn't break anything. (Just kidding, just kidding. Don't hit me.) You know you can count on me for whatever, anytime. Love you more than Jackson loves Stiles._
> 
> _Anyhow, I had a blast this weekend, but now I'm back to work, guys. Leave your doubts, compliments, or general criticism in the comments section below and I'll make sure to reply. Enjoy the ride!_

Jackson takes him home that day.

It’s an uncomfortable ride, despite having the solid weight of Jackson’s hand on his thigh and the steady sound of rain hitting the side of his Jeep. He’s surprised Jackson hasn’t complained about having to drive anything other than the infamous Porsche, and lets a smile show, earning a curious glance from Jackson. He shakes his head in return, exhales through his mouth and draws a face on the window as the glass fogs up.

He opens with, “Lydia said she was sorry,” and the tension inside the car is almost palpable. He presses hard against the wound on his hand. “Allison told her.”

“Oh.”

“She still loves you,” he says, biting onto his bottom lip. The glass is cold against his forehead. “And it’s not just teenage hormones or an endless crush from third grade.”

Jackson takes a moment to answer. Stiles turns to peek at him. “I know.”

“Yeah?”

His hand leaves Stiles’ thigh and his knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. Stiles waits, straightens his back as Jackson breathes out a sigh. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“How can you say that? She’s doing this for you. You’re aware of that, right? She knows one of us has to die, and she chose to save you. Not me. There’s a chance the spell won’t work, and she’s still doing this, because of _you_. Because she’s madly in love with you—and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Yeah, Stiles. There’s nothing I can do about it. Do you want me to give everything up and get back with her?”

No. “Yes. That’s exactly what you should do. I don’t know—graduate, marry her, have kids, buy an even more expensive car. Live happily ever after.”

“And what am I supposed to do with you? Just forget you ever existed and move on?”

“That’s an option. I might never come back after—”

And that’s the cold, hard truth. They both know it, they’ve both heard it, they’ve shouted at each other because of it, but none of them has faced it. Not Derek, not Scott, not him, and certainly not Jackson. They haven’t made plans to a future that might have no Stiles in it. A future in which Scott will have to find another best friend, Harris will have to find another student to bully, Allison will have to find a new third wheel to her relationship. 

In which Lydia will have to find someone else to treat her right even though she’ll ignore their efforts, Derek will have to find another dork to balance out his creepiness. In which Jackson will have to forget late nights on his bedroom floor and stolen kisses in dark closets. And his dad—his dad will have to learn to live a life without a wife and son, with too many whiskey bottles and cases he won’t give a shit about.

Stiles’ breath comes to screeching halt and his eyes fill with tears. His nails dig into his palms, soaking the bandages in blood as he dwells in the burning pain. There are words scratching his throat, words he can’t even breathe, words he’s been dying to say.

“I don’t—I don’t want to—fuck. Stop the car.”

“What?”

“Stop the car!” The Jeep stops and Jackson reaches for him, but he dodges and hops out before Jackson’s fingers can wrap around his arm. Jackson is close behind him. “Fuck, just—leave me alone.”

“Leave you alone? What’s wrong with you? Grow some fucking balls, Stiles. Get back in the car.”

“Fuck you, Jackson. Easy for you to say with your superpowers and stupid perfect face.”

“Easy? You think it’s been easy for me? Derek gave me a bite I didn’t want and now I’m a freak even to werewolves. Do you know _why_ he bit me? He killed what was left of his family after the fire and thought he needed to be a stronger alpha. I happened to be in his way the night he decided that. How’s that for easy?”

Stiles shakes his head, wiping at his mouth with his sleeve. Jackson’s doesn’t understand. He never will. “I was there for you every step of the way.”

“Fuck _you_. Like I’m not here for you. Everybody is. You think we’re training because we decided we wanted to work out? I—we want you to have a chance to survive this. It’s not easy knowing the only reason they’re keeping me alive is because my bite can kill the alpha. They’d rather keep you around. I’m just a spoiled, arrogant prick who doesn’t give a shit about anyone else—that’s what I am to them. But you know better than anyone that’s not—” Stiles doesn’t want to hear it. He’s way too familiar with that sharp intake of breath, that wavering in Jackson’s voice. It’ll only make things worse. “I’m in love with you, and it’s costing your life. It’s not easy—it’s fucking devastating, Stiles.”

Stiles’ fist connects to Jackson’s jaw so hard the wave of pain it creates from his sliced palm all the way to his right shoulder makes him stumble forward. He lands on top of Jackson as Jackson’s back hits the ground, mud splashing on his face, and he laughs, rolling to the side as rain washes over them.

“You deserved that,” he says, head tipped to the side as he watches Jackson’s mouth go from an angry sneer to an amused smile. “For several years of psychological—and sometimes physical—terrorism when we could have just settled things with an _‘I love you’_ and a blowjob.”

“Stiles—”

“Look, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry. I freaked out. I’m allowed to do that in my current situation. Let’s not make it more than it is.”

Jackson nods, picking himself up from the ground without another word. Minutes later, when they step into Stiles’ living room, dripping wet and painted in mud, Stiles has a hard time explaining to his dad what happened. Jackson is quick to step in and say, “It was my fault. My car broke down and he hurt his hand trying to fix it,” and his dad’s frown deepens. “Then he punched me because I said it was his fault.”

There’s a slight hesitation, and then a nod. “Alright. Jackson, is it? Spend the night. I’m not letting a kid out in this weather.”

Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Jackson is already on other terms, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

“No problem,” his dad says around a smile, and disappears into the hallway.

“Okay,” Stiles whispers, turning to Jackson once his dad is out of earshot. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Not making it more than it is.”

“Clearly.”

“What?”

“I could kill you right now.”

“Yeah, whatever makes you sleep at night, Stilinski.”

Turns out sleep is not what Jackson plans on doing when Stiles steps back into his bedroom after a hot shower, wearing a towel around his hips that ends up on the floor in less than a second. Jackson smirks up at him, pulling him down until his hand is buried in Jackson’s wet hair and their chests are pressed up together. He’s not sure if what they’re doing fits their ‘not making it more than it is’ policy.

“I can’t—” he breathes out, but it goes unheard in the midst of Jackson’s tongue in mouth and Jackson’s cock poking his stomach. His eyes shut closed as his brain threatens to fall short. “Jackson—shit. Stop. Stop.”

***

Stiles takes in the scent of dark, damp hair as he comes down off his high, filling her up as his orgasm wears off. His teeth nibble at her pale shoulder, tasting sweat and bitter satisfaction, and she laughs, chest bobbing against his as her hands slide up his back, nails slicing through skin.

“ _Not bad_ ,” she says, and Stiles sits up to see her licking away at his blood, fingers sliding out of her mouth with a wet pop. “ _Could be better_.”

“You can’t find better. You’re dead, Esther.”

She laughs harder, finger tracing the scars on her chest while her other hand picks up a forgotten cigarette on the nightstand. “ _I would beg to differ. Shame I didn’t have the chance to fuck Jackson before I put him in the hospital. That spell hit him harder than I’d thought_.” Stiles takes the cigarette from her and steps on it before making his way to the bathroom. Her footsteps are close behind him. “ _Oh, come on, Stiles. He died ten years ago. Get over it_.”

“You killed him.”

“ _He killed himself_ ,” Esther counters, smiling up at him. Her arms circle his waist and her chin rests on his chest. “ _He should’ve stayed put. His loss_.”

Stiles glances at his feet, watching as crimson-red water goes down the drain. She chuckles, presses kisses to his neck and chest before closing her teeth around a nipple, and Stiles winces, waits for the blood to start its way down. He tastes it on her tongue when it comes to twirl around his.

“ _Something wrong?_ ”

He swallows, shakes his head as her green eyes turn black, and her skin turns dry under his fingers. Her face starts melting, piece by piece of bone and flesh dropping onto the tiles as her voice rings in his ears.

“Stiles?”

Stiles gasps for air, pulling away from Jackson as his head swoons and his vision grows unclear as his back hits the floor with a muffled crack, sending a painful jolt down his spine. He tries to breathe through the knot lodged in his throat, but as his consciousness begins to spiral down an endless void and Jackson’s face turns into a dark smudge before his eyes, he’s not sure he’ll make it.

“ _Please, Stiles. Talk to me,_ ” Lydia pleads, hair brushing against his face as he tastes the tears in her words. He lets his eyes flutter shut, reveling in the slow slither of her lips on his, on the smoldering fire in his fingertips and the scent of cherries taking over his senses.

That soon fades into white noise and weightlessness, his lungs filling with water as his eyes burn with salt. He lifts an arm, fingers grasping at nothing, closing around water that swooshes between them. The light goes dimmer, turns into a shade of grey that pushes him further down, like an anchor strapped to his shoulders, and the voices are near. Around him, inside him.

“ _Stiles. Stiles._ ”

Lydia’s voice. Jackson’s. Scott’s. Allison’s. Scott’s. Derek’s.

Esther’s.

“ _Your time has come,_ ” she whispers, arms wrapping around his chest and mouth close to his ear. Her heart is beating hard against his back, blood pumping fast, seeping through her pores, and the ocean turns red. Redder. Tastes like iron, smells like rust.

It vanishes into thin air.

“You’re going to be okay,” they say. He doesn’t answer. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re going to the hospital.”

His dad is there. Sitting beside him, clutching at his hand for dear life. Stiles wants to speak, to apologize and tell him he’ll find mom and say he lived life to the fullest. “Tell Jackson I—” _want him, love him, will miss him,_ is what he wants to say, too, but his mouth is filled with blood.

Colors dance before his eyes, beautiful and shining like gold and silver, like Lydia’s laugh and Jackson’s smile. They shoot up inside him like fireworks, burn like acid and explode like death. If this is what it is to have life slip away, to close his eyes and cease to exist, then he might as well enjoy every minute of it before he ceases to _feel_.

Lydia smiles beside him, leaning over his face to place her lips on his forehead—warm and pliant, moving slowly as he chokes on his own blood. She disappears when she moves back and away, Derek’s smile replacing hers as he drives a knife through Stiles’ heart. 

“ _Are you sure you want to do this, Stiles? Exchange your life for his?_ ” Derek says, nodding to where Stiles’ dad was supposed to be. Stiles doesn’t keep his eyes from tearing up as Jackson’s hand slides up Esther’s leg, fingers digging into her thigh as he fucks into her. Her red lips part and her neck snaps back. “ _He wouldn’t do it for you_.”

“You’re lying.” Stiles tilts his head to look at Derek, then back at his body bleeding out on the stretcher. His eyes trail to Jackson again when he curses around Esther’s name. “You’re lying.”

Derek’s breath ghosts over his ear. “ _Am I?_ ”

“Yes!” Stiles shrieks, but both Jackson and Esther slip him a smirk as Jackson picks up speed, and he slumps in his seat. He closes his eyes and tries to ignore the sound of Jackson’s moans as they grow louder. “None of this is happening.”

“ _You’re right. None of it is_.”

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey,” Stiles says, sitting up on the hospital bed. He rubs at his temples, taking in the sight of Jackson’s bloodshot eyes and disheveled hair. “Ran out of hair gel?”

“More like my boyfriend passed out on me during foreplay and I didn’t have the time to apply hair gel because he was hemorrhaging all over the place.”

“Your what?”

There’s a knock on the door before Jackson can answer it. “Can I have a moment with my son?”

Jackson nods, giving Stiles’ hand a quick squeeze. “Of course. I’ll, uh—I’ll be right outside.”

Stiles’ dad nods back, patting Jackson on the shoulder as Jackson leaves, and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. Stiles waits for the interrogation in silence, knowing that puzzled frown on his dad’s face. He’s got a lot of explaining to do.

“There is no girl, is there?”

Stiles opens his mouth. “No.”

His dad nods, eyes filling up with tears. “The doctor said—”

“I’m sorry, dad.”

“Did you know?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, looking down at his lap. “Yeah, I did. I’m sorry.”

“I’m supposed to take care of you and you’re—you’re dying, Stiles. The tumor is inoperable. They say there’s nothing they can do about it, but we’ll find a way. I can call the best doctors in the state. I promise you’re not going to—”

“Dad. Dad, hey.” Stiles flings his legs over the side of the bed, leaning closer so he can squeeze his dad’s shoulder. “It’s okay. I’m alright.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Stiles. I should’ve known. I should’ve done something to help you. I just can’t—I can’t lose you.”

“It’s not your fault,” he says, looking through the window at Jackson, and then back. “It’s nobody’s fault. I’m going to be okay.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t tell me that, because it’s not true.”

“Look, dad, you trust me, right?”

“Yeah.”

Stiles nods, flashes his dad a smile. “Then trust me when I say this—I’m going to be fine. I promise you that.”

A promise never sounded so hollow to his ears.

***

His dad drives him to school in the morning with a smile set on his lips, one of those smiles Stiles has gotten used to over the years; the one that holds false promises, just like the one Stiles made last night. The silent reassurance, the quick squeeze to the shoulder—it doesn’t feel quite right.

Lydia is the first to pull him in a hug when he steps out of the car. He throws his dad a look over his shoulder as Lydia drapes herself around his neck, and his dad chuckles, leaves after a short wave. Allison stands there, arms crossed over her chest and a kindhearted smile on her lips. Stiles smiles back and gestures with a hand over Lydia’s shoulder, hugging them both once Allison is close enough.

“Thank you,” he says against her hair. “Both of you.”

Lydia pulls away long enough to land a kiss on his cheek, and Allison soon follows. Stiles laughs, letting them go with a smile and welcoming a chest full of Scott.

“Alright, buddy. I still have three days to go. No need to get emotional.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it last night,” Scott says, tightening his grip on Stiles. “My mom told me what happened. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Yeah, I need to thank her for that.” Stiles pats him on the back. “I’m glad to be here, man. Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Lydia pulls all of them into the janitor’s closet before lunch. Jackson’s elbow is digging into Stiles’ ribs and Allison’s heel is about to drill a hole on his right foot, but he manages to go through ten minutes of Lydia talking about how amazing and magical spells are without wanting to kill something. After that, it gets a little hard to focus.

“And your point is?” Jackson says after a moment, voicing Stiles’ thought.

“Right, sorry. I got carried away,” Lydia apologizes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I was flipping through that spell book Derek gave me. I think I can heal you,” she says to Stiles, and he nods. “For a short amount of time, just until the day comes. But I’ll need your help. All of you.”

“Don’t you have to be a witch to cast those spells?”

“No, Scott. Just like the resurrection spell, I need to have an emotional connection to someone who will be deeply affected if the spell doesn’t work. And while I don’t love the fact that Jackson is in love with Stiles, I can use it to our advantage.”

“Jackson’s in love with Stiles? Oh, my God. Dude,” Scott whispers, as if none of them could hear it, and turns to Jackson. “You’re in love with Stiles.”

“That’s not relevant,” Stiles says before Jackson has the chance to reply. “Whatever it is we have to do, we’ll do it at training today.”

***

Stiles can’t help the smile that appears on his face when they step inside the warehouse and Derek gives him a nod and a pat on the shoulder that he knows hold more to it than Derek lets it show. Isaac gives him a one-armed hug that lasts less than a millisecond, but is long enough to stroke his ego, and Boyd, albeit seemingly doing it against his will, spares Stiles a smile and a, “Glad to have you back.” If getting himself in the hospital can make soulless people feel something for him, then everything can’t be _that_ wrong in the world.

“I need to talk to you,” Derek says to him, nodding toward the door.

Stiles slips Jackson and Scott a quick look before saying, “Yeah, sure,” and making his way outside with Derek close behind him. They stand in silence for a moment—Stiles wanting nothing more than to go back inside and Derek looking as if he’s about to break.

“Last night,” he starts, and Stiles tips his head up to look at him. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” And Stiles isn’t lying. Not entirely. “A fucked up hallucination. I don’t know.”

“Before that.”

“Does it matter?”

Derek shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets. “No, but it can’t happen again, Stiles. Not when we’re on a deadline. You know what’ll happen if the alpha doesn’t have Jackson by then, and he’ll start with the people we care about. The Sheriff, Scott’s mom, the Argents—we won’t be able to protect them. I need you focused, not in the hospital.”

“I know. I know better than anyone, alright? But I’m allowed to have a good time. My life can’t be all about you right now. I can make my own decisions.”

“About me?” Derek scoffs. “If you’re not focused now, then you won’t be focused when the time comes. And when that arrow flies right through your stomach, there will be no resurrection spell that will save you, Stiles. Think again.”

“It doesn’t even matter if I’m focused or not,” Stiles says, letting his voice rise. He bites down onto his lower lip. “There’s no guarantee that spell will work, period. If I die, I know it’s not going to be for nothing, because Jackson won’t have me holding him back and he’ll be able to kill the alpha, but it’s my life. My life will be _gone_ and I haven’t even had actual sex yet. I should be allowed to at least try.”

“Not with him. And believe me when I say this, Stiles, I know he has the perfect mouth to suck one, but keep your dick in your pants when you’re around him, or it’s going to cost us more than just your life.”

“Fuck you, Derek,” Stiles spits out, hand flying in Derek’s direction, but fingers wrap tight around his wrist before his fist connects to Derek’s jaw. His eyes trail from Derek’s red eyes to the dangerous snarl set on Derek’s lips as his back hits the wall—

“That’s enough.”

Stiles turns his head to glance at Jackson, undirected anger boiling at the pit of his stomach as Derek slowly peels away from him. Jackson’s gaze is locked on the floor, brows knitted together as Stiles stares at him. He and Derek—?

“You didn’t,” Stiles says, well aware that it sounds like an accusation.

Jackson’s tone is dry, cold when he replies, “Go back inside.” Stiles opens his mouth in sheer bewilderment, not sure if he wants to kick Derek or Jackson in the balls first, but Jackson doesn’t flinch—only closes his eyes and reiterates, “Go.”

The door slams shut behind Stiles’ back, metal against metal, and he doesn’t have to be a werewolf to hear all hell break loose. He looks up to see Isaac and Scott shooting him sympathetic frowns that he doesn’t want directed toward him. Boyd and Erica are playing dumb, he can see it in the way Boyd is faking interest on an ugly stain on the wall, in the way Erica’s feet are drumming on the cement, hands clasped together between her thighs. He glances down at Allison when she walks up to him, hooks her arm through his with silent compassion draped on her face.

“Come on,” she says, pulling at his arm. “The spell’s ready.”

Stiles nods, slipping Scott one last look before Allison yanks him inside the train car, where Lydia is scattering candles all over the seats, open book in hand as she mumbles a few words under her breath.

“Okay. We’re all set.”

“I’ll be right outside, alright?” Allison tips her head to the side.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, watching her disappear into the warehouse. He looks back at Lydia. “I thought candles were just for cheesy TV shows.”

“They are, but you’re going to need the heat. Believe me.”

 _‘Believe me’_ has got to be on his Most Hated Sentences Ever list by now, but he spares her a smile, walking over to the circle drawn on the ground.

“Is that blood?”

“Yes,” she says, and her tone is too matter-of-fact for him to be comfortable. “Now be quiet and close your eyes.”

Shut up and close his eyes. Can’t be too hard. He can do that.

Lydia’s words are barely audible at first, only whispers and hisses in Latin as her hands tighten around his. Then, as the air grows thicker and colder, twisting around him, her voice bounces back and forth in his ears, loud and ripping apart every other sound that isn’t her. 

Stiles lets out a painful cry as his veins contract and expand, ice pumping through them and squeezing past his pores. Lydia’s hands escape his grasp and a breath gets trapped in his throat. Her voice rises to a deafening mantra. His heart stops.

“Lydia,” he breathes out, but warmth envelops him just as his body convinces his mind there’s no way back, and his heart spasms back into life.

Later, when sweat is running down his face and his heart beating a mile a minute, knives rolling in his palms, Stiles convinces himself he’s not doing this for Jackson or Derek. He’s doing it for himself.

***

Stiles’ mind comes to jolting halt as Erica lowers her chest to his, smile spread on her lips as one of her hands cover his mouth. He blinks himself awake once, twice, and she chuckles.

“Ssh,” she whispers, leaning closer still, until her hair tickles the side of Stiles’ face. “Your dad will hear us.” He closes his eyes, head falling back to his pillow as she lets him go with a sigh.

“What are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you.”

“Yeah, because we’re such good friends.”

“You should be thankful _someone_ cares enough to be here. Isaac and Boyd almost killed you out there.”

“Jackson sent me a text,” he says, and she arches both eyebrows at him, “which I ignored.”

“And how’s that going for you?”

Stiles wipes at his eyes, sitting up on the bed. “Not good.”

Erica nods, reaching into her pocket as her back rests against the wall. “I’m sorry for—” she pauses, rolls the piece of metal in her hand. “Eavesdropping.”

“I understand.” She shoots him a puzzled frown. “I mean, if I could, I would, too. No hard feelings.”

Her smile seems honest, this time, unlike her usual smirk and pointy eyebrows. Stiles watches, waits until she’s done biting down onto her bottom lip. “I can’t help it. Not with you. I just—” Not with him? Is she crying? “I wanted to give you this.”

She thrusts a hand at him and he eyes the pendant, words lost midway through his chest. “What? Why?”

Erica waits for a moment, but when he doesn’t take it, she draws her arm back, clutching it close to her chest. “I don’t know if you remember, but before Derek gave me the bite,” she starts, wipes at her nose, “I used to have these seizures. I spent more time at the hospital than at home.”

“Yeah. I remember.” Barely. “I never saw you at school.”

“I can hear your brain trying to reach out and grasp memories that aren’t really there, Stiles. You don’t remember. You don’t have to lie.” He can see the outline of her neck in the dark as she throws her head back and smiles. “My dad gave me this,” she says, flipping the pendant in the air. “He said it would protect me. Sometimes I thought I wouldn’t wake up anymore, and when I did, staring at that white ceiling was the highlight of my day.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. No. You don’t have to be. I don’t need this anymore.” She grabs his hand and drops it on his palm, closing his fingers around it. “But you do. I know what it’s like to feel your mind slipping away and want to breathe but not be able to, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. You should have it.”

“I—I can’t, Erica—”

“Jesus Christ. Just take it,” she groans. “Look, I know it may seem like we’re not a team, but we are. A dysfunctional one, but still a team. And we should look out for each other. I’m looking out for you. Please.”

Stiles takes a moment to consider his options, but as Erica’s hand close around his for a second time that night, he bites the inside of his cheek and nods.

“Yeah. Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feb 25th update: Hey, guys. This last chapter is taking way too long, I know, but I did not abandon the fic. I have every intention of finishing it. Just thought I'd let you know that it's 60% done. Promise! Thank you for patiently waiting.
> 
> 80% as of March 5th. Long, _long_ chapter.
> 
> March 8th: Holy shit, it's _done_! My beta and I will do our best to fix whatever needs fixing this weekend, so it should be posted within a week if everything runs smoothly.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Holy mother of God_ , guys. I can't believe I'm posting this. I know, I know, I'm late again. I'm so sorry, but it's here, and it's done! I've taken huge, and I mean _huge_ , liberties with general werewolf (and Teen Wolf) mythology, but that's a given. Just warning you that this chapter might be a little crazier than expected. I'm not even sure I answered all the questions I've been scattering around. Pffft. I'm sorry!
> 
> Please let me know if anything seems weird or out of place, because it's a huge chapter and it's likely that either me or my awesome, _awesome_ beta missed something, especially when it comes to coding. I've checked and rechecked, but I can never be sure, so speak up!
> 
> I want to thank you all for sticking around and bearing with me. It was an amazing experience. Special thanks to Firefly - you're a wonderful reader. Thank you! Also, of course, my beta. Riven, I love you so much for every minute spent on this story. I wouldn't have made it without you. You have a special place in my heart, but you already know that, right? I can't thank you enough.
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who commented, bookmarked, left kudos, or whatever. You give me all the best feels in the world.
> 
> Enjoy this last ride. I hope it's worth it!

Stiles has a bagel between his teeth, backpack thrown over a shoulder and one foot out the door when his dad clears his throat behind him. He turns around slowly, eyebrows up high on his brow as he takes a step back into the house and drops his things to the floor.

“Dad. Hi,” he says around the bagel, giving it a quick bite before taking it out of his mouth. “You’re not at work.”

“I called in sick today.” His dad gestures toward the kitchen. He follows, despite the uneasiness settling at the pit of his stomach, and sits when his dad pulls a chair for him. He watches in silence as breakfast is laid down in front of him, one thing after another, until there’s no room for anything else. “Eat.”

So, there are two possible scenarios that might have caused this sudden change in routine: he either got into some ~~more~~ trouble he’s not aware of or someone else other than him is dying, because having breakfast together on a Thursday and the use of verbs in the imperative mood, all happening at once, is far from being normal Stilinski practice.

“I already ate,” Stiles says, ignoring the drop of sweat trickling down his face. 

“Yeah, a bite off a bagel. Now _eat_.”

“Eat. Okay. I can do that.” Stiles nods, stuffing his mouth with toast and eggs. Then, bacon. And juice, and—holy mother of God, something that looks like pie but doesn’t taste like pie. “I’m eating.”

“Good. That’s good,” says his dad, nodding back and slumping down in his seat. “I’m sorry, Stiles, but I needed us to sit and have a serious talk about what’s happening to our family.”

Stiles downs the food with another mouthful of orange juice. “Dad, I told you I’m fine. Lydia—you know, that girl from school, she’s been helping out. Everything’s okay.”

“No, you’re not fine. Everything is not okay. A tumor is not something a friend of yours can just help you with.” _I would beg to differ_ , is what Stiles wants to say, but he chooses to lick his lips and stay silent instead. “You’re my son and I’m going to see you die. That’s not my role as a parent. I’m supposed to grow old and leave you a mediocre inheritance when my time comes. I shouldn’t have to bury my own kid.”

Stiles lolls his head back, hand going into his pocket to close around Erica’s pendant. “I promised you I’d be fine, and I’m doing my best here, dad. You just have to bear with me for a while.”

“Bear with you until what happens? Your funeral? Your friends gathered around your grave? What? I’m not leaving you to fight this alone. I love you more than anything in the world, Stiles, and you know that I’m going to do anything, possible or impossible, to keep you alive.”

“Look, dad, I know it’s not easy, but I need you to trust me, okay? There’s something happening right now that you wouldn’t believe me if I _showed_ you. It’s a huge mess that I have to deal with on my own.”

“Is this about that Whittemore kid? About you coming back home late all beaten up? Is someone at school bothering you, son? Because if there is, I’m—”

“No one’s doing anything to me. Jesus. School’s fine.” Stiles chuckles, shaking his head as he leans against the chair. “I just can’t put you in the middle of it. There’s too many people involved as it is—”

“People like Kate Argent?”

“What?”

“You told me she might have been involved in the Jackson Whittemore case, and then her DNA shows up all over that dead girl’s body. I just don’t know how, or why, but I know she’s part of whatever it is that’s happening.” Stiles opens his mouth to speak, but his dad only raises a finger. “I also looked into that pendant the Argents carry around, and it’s got to do with everything from old French lore to modern werewolf tales. Now, I’m no expert in that, but I’m pretty sure none of it’s real.”

Stiles is rendered speechless at that, but the one thing he knows he’s not supposed to say is, “Well, dad. There’s something you should know,” and, unfortunately, that’s exactly how it goes.

Needless to say, it’s not an easy task convincing the Sheriff he’s not supposed to go around shooting Stiles’ friends and demanding explanations. It turns out that, after much insistence on his part, Stiles is able to convince his dad he’s not batshit crazy without having to drag Scott home and tell him to turn. He gets to go to school and enroll in his own share of teenage drama with Jackson accosting him in the hallway and getting close enough to his face to make Stiles want to either kiss him or punch him.

“You’re ignoring me.” 

“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” Stiles snaps, fingers tightening around the strap on his shoulder. “But I take it you’re smart enough to know what that means.”

“I didn’t do anything to deserve that.” Jackson’s nose brushes against his and he freezes on the spot, well aware that people might be watching. “I’m smart enough to know that you’re not some twelve-year-old girl who ignores her problems instead of solving it. So here’s the thing, Stiles, we’re going to talk it out whether you want it or not.”

Damn it, what’s with people and talking today? “I’m not really in the mood to stare at your face right now. I think I’ll take a raincheck.”

“If staring at my face is the problem, then I guess we’ll just have to turn you around,” Jackson says, grabbing Stiles by the shoulders and slamming him against the lockers, “while we have a civilized conversation about Derek playing mind games with you.”

“More like while we have a civilized conversation about you sucking Derek’s dick,” Stiles fires back, even though it’s hard to breath with Jackson pressed up against his back.

Jackson is quiet for a moment and, when he steps back, it makes Stiles mentally whimper at the loss. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.” Stiles turns around, rubbing a hand on his aching chest as Jackson’s hollow laugh sounds in his ears. “That’s exactly what he wanted you to think. He wanted you to be angry. The angrier you are, the stronger you are. And he was right.”

“I got my ass handed to me by Isaac and Boyd.”

“They’re werewolves,” Jackson says, as if it’ll make things better.

“It doesn’t matter _what_ they are. I need to be able to kill without a second thought or our little plan won’t work.” Stiles sighs. “I don’t need Derek being a manipulative asshole and I certainly don’t need you backing him up. I don’t have the time for this bullshit.”

“And yet you’re—”

“You gave me a brain tumor _and_ the impression you were blowing Derek behind my back. You don’t get a say in this. I’m doing you a favor and only being half the jerk you were your entire life,” Stiles snaps, his open palm connecting with a locker as anger overcomes him. “I can’t be with you. I can’t handle the constant misery and what-ifs, Jackson. I don’t _want_ it. I think it’s better for the both of us if you just stay the hell away from me.”

And, with that, he leaves Jackson behind, looking over his shoulder for a second as an icy stare gazes back at him, sharp and affronted. Stiles stops on his track, head bowed and feet almost regretting his decision, making their way back to Jackson. Almost.

Lydia finds him at the end of the day. Her fingers warm as they wrap around his, pulling him toward his Jeep, and he smiles at her, waits for her to speak as her cherry-red lips curl back up at him. 

“You okay?”

Stiles knows what she means ( _Are you and Jackson okay? Did something happen? Do you need to talk about it?_ ) and he’s sure he can count on her to sort it out. The thing is: he doesn’t know if he wants to. He wasn’t lying when he said it would be better for Jackson and him if they kept their distance. Being around each other is intoxicating, and he can’t afford that.

“No.”

She doesn’t press the matter, even though Stiles knows she wants to, and squeezes his hand with a nod. “You’re stressed. That’s normal in your situation. Hell, Stiles, I’m surprised you haven’t had a major freak-out yet. I know I would have.” Stiles half-smiles. Little does she know. “You know what? We don’t have to go today. I can keep you company. I’ll grab some beer on my way home and you can come over for a movie or something,” she muses, and his eyebrows shoot upright. “No beer? Okay. Maybe some Jack Daniels and a pizza. I’m very flexible with my—”

He just stops listening at some point. He spent most of his life dreaming of this, of Lydia inviting him to her place for something other than a History project, of her hand around his, a big smile on her face. Months ago, if that were to happen, he would have been on cloud nine. Scott wouldn’t hear the end of it. But not now. This is something else.

“I love you,” he says, and that’s what it is. Lydia’s baffled expression doesn’t bother him. It takes him by surprise as well. Before she can come up with a reasonable excuse as for why this is a particularly bad idea, he interrupts with, “I mean, not like that. Not anymore. I just—I need you to know that I love you for everything you’ve done. For everything you’ve turned into. I only ever got to see one side of you, Lydia, and now I’m glad I got to meet the other one. You should let that Lydia out more. You shouldn’t have to make-up a character.”

She almost looks offended for a moment, but as her face breaks into a smile and her eyes fill with mirth, Stiles knows he’s still walking on safe ground. “Well, I learned from the best. Jackson has a way of rubbing off on you, if you know what I mean.”

Stiles chuckles at that, letting his shoulder shake and ignoring the innuendo behind Lydia’s wink. She laughs back at him, giving his arm a quick slap before hopping onto the passenger seat and nodding toward the steering wheel.

“C’mon. You can choose where we go next.”

Next ends up being the warehouse, where his dad’s car is perfectly parked in front of it. Derek is leaning against the hood, arms crossed over his chest and the best Hale sour face in position, ready to ask Stiles why the Sheriff was invited to the party. (Probably with a few punches thrown in the mix.)

So, he leaves Lydia in the car, despite her protests. Derek meets him halfway and, with a swift look behind his shoulder, Stiles opens his mouth to start explaining, but Derek doesn’t let him.

“You shouldn’t have told him.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. But he—”

“Don’t. Just come on in.”

And Stiles does, after Lydia is hiding behind him, clutching at his biceps with her nails as they step inside. He has to admit he was expecting to find everyone sitting in a corner, his dad lecturing them about how dangerous handling knives, bows, and stakes was as they pouted and listened with shame plastered on their faces. 

He’s pretty sure his heart skips a beat or two when he spots his dad holding a bow inches away from his body, one eye closed to get a good look at a dummy that bears an uncanny resemblance to a burn victim, instead.

Stiles dares to step up to Derek. “What are you doing? You didn’t have the right—”

“To what, Stiles? Compromise everything we’ve worked for by telling the Sheriff about your afterschool activities?”

“Shit.” Stiles takes a breath, shaking his head. “I didn’t have a choice, alright? He already knew stuff he shouldn’t, and he wouldn’t let me out of the house if I didn’t promise to show him what was going on.”

“You didn’t have a choice,” Derek says, laughing, and it’s not a question. “You _had_ a choice when I told you to stay away from all of this, and I was the one who gave it to you. You just didn’t take it.”

“Is that what this is about? You told me to stay away from _Jackson_ and I didn’t? What, do you want him for yourself, Derek? Is that it?” Stiles’ eyes trail up Jackson’s figure, standing not too far from them, and he knows it’s going to hurt, that he’ll regret it later, but— “Take him. I don’t care. But leave my dad out of it.” 

He can almost hear it—the moment his words hit Jackson in the guts, piercing through. At least, if he doesn’t make it, it won’t matter what bridges he burns. 

“You failed to leave him out of it, not me. I have done everything to help you and your friends, and you can’t be grateful for one second.”

“Help me? Your stupid little witch made Jackson _rape_ me before vanishing from the face of the Earth and getting herself killed, Derek. She created a bond between us that’s killing me day by day, because you needed Jackson so badly in your pack. And for what?”

Silence resonates. 

Stiles wipes at his mouth, letting tears roll down his face as his breathing turn into sobs. His dad is gaping at him, hands balled up in fists, and Stiles turns around. 

He can’t do this shit anymore.

“Fuck.”

“He did what, Stiles?” his dad asks, voice tight. “Son?”

“Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—fuck. Fuck.”

Lydia wraps her arms around him, letting him hide his face on the curve of her neck, and says, “He’s been through a lot. I’ll explain everything to you, Sheriff. I just—” She pauses. “We need a second.”

That second becomes minutes that become hours of Stiles sitting on cold cement, back pressed against the wall while he listens to the whispering on the other side of it. He wonders if his dad has already arrested Jackson by now, or if Lydia somehow managed to convince him it wasn’t rape. 

Rape. It’s only the first time Stiles has called it that and it already sounds wrong. That’s not what it was. Stiles might not have wanted the sex, but he wanted to help Jackson, and as much as it hurt, as much as it wasn’t comfortable, he got off on it and wouldn’t change a thing. He can’t bear the thought of what could have happened if he’d done otherwise, if he’d run away. 

_Then why call it that?_

Stiles chuckles low in his throat, wiping at tears that aren’t there anymore. He doesn’t know what got into him. He’s just tired, on edge. The muscles around his shoulders and neck are pulling, aching all the way to the bone, and Derek can’t stop being a condescending idiot long enough for him to _breathe_. Stiles likes his daily dose of snark and sarcasm, too, but Derek overdoes it to the point of—

“I talked to your friends.” Stiles looks up at his dad. “I don’t think they like that Whittemore kid very much, but he’s not a criminal.”

“I don’t like him very much either. And yeah, he isn’t.”

His dad offers him a hand and Stiles takes it. “But you care about him.”

“He didn’t—he didn’t hurt me, dad. I’m sorry I said that. I was just angry at him, at Derek. Still am, to be honest.”

“I feel like I’m breaking the law here, son. I should arrest them both.”

Stiles laughs. “Can you at least wait until the weekend?”

“About that—”

“Dad, I’m doing this. I can’t just let them take Jackson without a fight. Lydia’s healing spell is going to wear off sooner or later and I’ll die anyway. Don’t try to talk me out of it.” Stiles bats away at the dirt on his jeans. “Please. Promise me.”

“Look, Stiles,” his dad starts, throwing an arm behind his shoulders and pulling him close. “I promise I won’t chain you to your bed, but that’s as far as my promises go.”

Stiles laughs. “Thank you.”

***

Stiles doesn’t know how long it’s been since he first closed his eyes, expecting blissful slumber and finding himself staring at a tarnished world instead, painted in black and white except for the blood-red soaking the skies, but sleep hasn’t been something he has looked forward to in a while.

He lies awake in his bed more often than not, hoping he won’t have to fight his way through another dream that stenches of death, listening to that whispering reserved for his ears only, “ _Do you think you’ll make it this time? I don’t think you will,_ ” until his eyelids are too heavy to keep watching a dark ceiling. Exhaustion then washes over him, makes him roll on side and bury his head into a pillow that could be a little softer, smell less like fear, and he lets go, knowing he’ll wake up more tired than when he went to sleep.

But not tonight. Tonight, sleeping sounds like a good idea. 

He should be terrified of what’s to come, hands shaking, heart threatening to burst, breath stuck midway through his throat, and part of him is, but that part is lying dormant somewhere, silently hoping it won’t die, that it will get another chance to suck air into his lungs. 

The part of him that matters isn’t afraid to fall into everlasting oblivion. The moment he ceases to exist, Jackson will be free to make good use of his curse. There will be nothing holding him back—no bond, no mate; only strength, and Jackson will save the day.

So, tonight, even if Stiles’ dreams are one step away from insanity, he’ll welcome it. He won’t fight the low buzzing in his ears, the tingling in his toes, and certainly not the weightlessness as his body falls into dream-land. Except he’s pretty sure he’s hearing voices inside his head—or outside his window—that aren’t his. If this is already a dream, he’s never fallen asleep so fast in his life.

“ _Your boyfriend’s looking! Make him stop looking._ ”

Is that—Lydia? 

“ _I’m not looking. I swear. Ouch. I swear!_ ”

Stiles props himself up on his elbows, squinting to get a good look outside. It doesn’t feel like a dream at all; more like a late-night robbery. Lifting up the covers, he makes his way to the window and sticks his head out, finding Lydia with her feet on Scott’s shoulders, trying to reach Stiles’ window.

“Oh, thank God,” she says. “Give me a hand, will you?”

Stiles stretches a hand and pulls her up. “What are you doing here, dude?” he says to Scott once Lydia is safely in his room. “It’s like, two in the morning.”

Lydia clears her throat. “One forty-five, actually.”

“She’ll explain it to you, man. Just hurry up.”

Stiles turns around to find that Lydia has scattered at least half the pieces of clothing he owns onto his bed. She’s flipping through more clothes in his closet, humming a song in her throat as she does so.

“I feel like I deserve some kind of explanation.”

“I’m throwing you a party.”

“A—what? I don’t want a party.”

“I do,” she says. “Do you have anything even remotely decent in here? God, Stiles. You need to do some shopping.”

“Alright. This is definitely the Lydia I don’t like. I’m going back to sleep,” Stiles argues, only to have her turn around and walk into his personal space, one eyebrow raised at him.

“No, you’re not. You’re going to be quiet, put your ass into this hideous pair of jeans, and happily walk out that door with me.”

“I think you mean sneak out that window with you.”

“Let’s not quibble over semantics, shall we?”

Stiles grabs the jeans she throws at him. “Can you at least give me some privacy?”

Lydia giggles, hitting the light switch with a slap. “I don’t think so.”

“Jesus Christ. Are you drunk?”

“I’m not Jesus, even though now I do have some magic powers. But, yes, I’m a little bit inebriated. Now put it on.” Stiles obeys without another word, sliding into his jeans and taking one of the shirts she set aside on his bed. Lydia makes a weird noise in her throat, pouting. “I didn’t know you had that body on you. No wonder Derek and Jackson are fighting for a piece of that—”

“Oh-kay, Lydia.” Stiles laughs. “I think that’s enough. Let’s ignore that twisted part of your brain from now on, hm?” he says, catching her when she tries to take a step forward and fails miserably. “I have no idea how I’m going to get you out that window.”

In a few excruciating minutes, he manages to grab her around the stomach and flip her over for Scott to snatch without feeling like a complete pervert. The fact that he now knows she’s into fluorescent underwear doesn’t help much, but at least he didn’t end up with a handful of her ass like Scott did.

“Alright, guys. Explanation time.” he asks once he gets onto the passenger seat. He glances over at Allison and Lydia in the back. “Please? Don’t make me feel like I’m talking to Derek.” 

“Lydia,” Scott starts and shares a look with Allison, “thought you could use some de-stressing before, you know.”

“She’s just worried about you. You deserve a normal Friday night with your friends,” Allison says, caressing Lydia’s hair as Lydia chuckles against her neck. “And we have to learn not to give her vodka on our way from the store.”

“I haven’t seen her this drunk since the first time Jackson broke up with her.”

“Speaking of which, how are you—?”

“Dude, seriously. No. Not right now.” Stiles runs a hand over his face, leaning back against the seat. “I hope you didn’t forget our friend Jack.”

Scott chuckles, starting the engine. “Wouldn’t dream of it, man.”

***

Apparently, Lydia invited half the population of California to that party.

After he and Scott drop a barely-conscious Lydia on the couch, Stiles loses track of pretty much everyone he knows between taking a drink some random brunette shoves at him and gulping it down at once to relieve the tension. He doesn’t mind it at first; he’s always been good at making a fool out of himself and scoring casual conversations as a consequence, especially after a drink or two.

And, for that reason, when he finishes his fifth weirdly-colored drink and still is not able to break through that mental block and strike up a chat, he gives up on it and winds up amusing himself as host. Mixing drinks and walking around with a tray doesn’t sound like a bad idea, except he can barely see two feet ahead without feeling like he’s watching the world through a kaleidoscope and _that_ is not fun.

“Let me help you with that.”

“Saving the damsel in distress,” he says, allowing himself to smile up at a familiar face, even though it doesn’t feel right. “How sweet of you, Derek.”

Derek takes the tray from him with one hand, while his other arm creeps over Stiles’ shoulder with an extra portion of charm not often directed Stiles’ way. “Consider this an apology,” he says over the music, pulling Stiles towards the pool.

“Would you mind if I recorded this moment and posted it on Tumblr for future reference? Or blackmailing material?”

Stiles is not quite sure he shouldn’t be afraid of the ear-to-ear smile Derek slips him. “It hasn’t been five minutes and you’re already making me regret this.”

“You look even creepier with that shit-eating grin on your face. I don’t know how that’s possible,” Stiles says, ignoring the violent pull Derek gives on his neck. “I never heard that apology, by the way.”

“Sure you did,” Derek says, looking down at him with knitted eyebrows. Derek puts the tray aside, letting go of Stiles and shrugging his leather jacket down his shoulders.

“Oh, right. I forgot I’m supposed to read between the lines with you. How silly of—” Stiles cuts himself off as Derek contributes to a pile of clothes by the pool, throwing his shirt on top of it. Stiles’ brain is not used to hundred-and-eighty-degree leaps yet. “Dude, what do you think you’re doing?”

“Joining the party,” Derek says, casually kicking away at his shoes.

He throws Stiles another weird smile and, by the time Stiles realizes it, Derek has already wrapped an arm around his waist and dived into the pool with him. People cheer and tip their glasses their way as they swim to the surface, and Stiles doesn’t miss an upset Jackson shaking his head and disappearing into the crowd before he breathes out a, “Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” and wipes at his eyes. 

Of all moments Jackson could have chosen to be staring at him, this had to be it. Awesome. That’s fucking awesome. Insert Derek as the third wheel, throw in the mix cheesy dialogue and beautiful people with no souls, and his life can be made into a show by the CW. (If it already hasn’t.)

As more people follow their lead and throw themselves into the pool, Stiles climbs out and finds himself a nice, quiet room to sulk in. He just wanted a good night’s sleep and ended up with Derek trying to be nice and make amends, which he thinks is a travesty all in itself, enough to make him lose sleep for an entire week, and Jackson, his personal fountain of headaches since he was too young to know how much sex and relationships could ruin lives.

He’s sure Lydia wanted this to be the average teenage party, filled with used condoms scattered on the floor and people puking on every bush in sight, but this is far, far from it. 

“Are you okay?”

Stiles stares up at Derek standing in the doorway. “Please, dude, can you just go back to normal? You’re starting to freak me out.”

And that, okay—that’s a big step for Derek and he’s aware of that, but it’s easier for him to deal with sarcasm and bitter replies than gloomy gazes and comforting hands. Especially when said hands are nervously playing with themselves as Derek takes a seat, and making Stiles feel sorry for him for trying so hard.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, and it’s weird for Stiles to actually hear those words slide past Derek’s lips.

“I appreciate it, I really do. I just—” Stiles smiles. “I can’t be angry at you when you’re acting like this, and I _need_ to be angry right now. I need to blame it on someone, to get this weight off my shoulders before I—”

“I don’t want you to die either, Stiles.”

“Actually, you were pretty adamant about it not long ago,” Stiles says with a chuckle. When Derek doesn’t react, he adds with a roll of eyes, “The morgue? Digging through Esther’s body to find a note you could barely even read? Or any other training day, for that matter? Ring any bells?”

“I already had a plan in mind.”

“Yeah, and that makes it okay to gamble with my life. Right?”

“I’m not forcing you to do anything.”

“I know. I’m not saying that!” Stiles raises his voice, only to sigh and try again, “I just feel like crap, not knowing what’ll happen next, you know? I hate this fucking uncertainty. I hate not knowing why this is happening, why Jackson had to be the one you bit, why Esther even came into play. I can’t even _begin_ to wrap my head around it, Derek.”

Derek stares up at him with a set jaw, frowning as if to say _here, I’m trying to come up with an excuse_ in the hopes Stiles will let it go. He doesn’t. He stares right back at Derek, his eyes unmoving as Derek’s eyebrows shift closer together.

“After Laura died,” Derek says, glancing down at the floor, “I needed to find the person who did it. He was badly hurt after the fire. Didn’t put up a fight.”

Stiles swallows down a mouthful of saliva as Derek’s eyes glow red. “You killed your Alpha. Your uncle.”

“I didn’t care who or what it was. I needed to avenge her death, even if that meant I was left with no pack and no family.” Derek shakes his head, wipes at his eyes as he breathes out a sigh. “Scott was supposed to be the one, that night. Not Jackson.”

“Scott?”

Derek nods. “But he’d already been bitten by another Alpha.”

“Jackson was what, then? Leftover?”

“Convenient.”

“You can’t just bite people because it’s _convenient_ , Derek. Jackson was already damaged enough. He didn’t need you in his life as a bonus.”

“I gave him a gift—”

“You gave him a curse!”

Derek’s icy laugh shakes Stiles to the core. “And _you_ were caught in the crossfire?”

“You want to make this about me? Fine. Have at it, dude.” Stiles throws his hands up in frustration. “But you know that’s not what I’m saying. You’re twisting it around so you’re the good guy in this.”

“I don’t give a shit about being the good guy, Stiles. You don’t get it, do you?” Derek says, shaking his head. “Jackson’s not just a werewolf. He’s a Theta.”

Stiles can’t form a single thought after that. There’s a breath stuck in his chest, a malformed sentence waiting to come out. “He’s a what?”

“One in a million. He suffered mutation somewhere between the bite and his first full moon, and that makes him a Theta.”

“His bite—?” Stiles winces. “Can it turn someone?”

“No.”

“But it can kill the Alpha. And I’m holding him back.”

Derek doesn’t utter a word, only nods in agreement and gazes away. Stiles runs a hand through his wet hair, anger boiling deep within him as he slides his drenched shirt over his head and throws it to the ground. He’s about to open his mouth and ask for some privacy and time to digest this newly acquired information when Jackson pushes the door open and stops dead on his track.

Yeah, Stiles is pretty sure his life is even worse than 90210.

“Am I interrupting?” Jackson says, and he sounds more like the asshole Jackson everyone loves to hate. His jaw is set tight, lips pressed in a thin line.

Stiles straightens his back, taking a deep breath as tension hangs in the room. His eyes follow as Derek, still dripping wet and shirtless, stands and walks over to Jackson, staring down at him.

“No,” Derek says, but, for some reason, it doesn’t sound like he’s even denying anything.

Stiles feels obligated to reiterate, “Definitely no,” and Jackson’s shoulders slump almost imperceptibly. Stiles closes his eyes, tilting his head back until it’s resting on the wall. He doesn’t notice Derek’s left until he opens them to find the door closed, Jackson leaning against it with his arms crossed over his chest. 

Stiles’ eyes wander over Jackson’s forearms, skimming up to the rolled-up sleeves of Jackson’s plaid shirt, and settles on Jackson’s biceps covered by the thin fabric. He swallows. Hard.

“Look, Stiles,” Jackson mutters, and Stiles can barely hear him over the loud dance music outside. He takes one, two steps in Stiles’ direction and Stiles tenses up, feels his muscles pull at his neck. “I know you’re angry—”

Stiles glances down at the wet mark he’s leaving on the carpet. “I’m not angry,” he says.

“Yeah.” Jackson’s laugh is cold. “’Course not. Just like Derek didn’t—“

“Is that what you’re here for? To bitch about Derek? You _know_ nothing happened. Also, I’m pretty sure I asked you to stay the hell away from me.” _Or not_ , his brain is screaming at him, _because I need this right now. I need you. Please, Jackson. I need you._

“Yeah. I’m pretty sure you did,” Jackson says making his way over to Stiles. Stiles swallows around air, almost stops breathing as Jackson gets up in his personal space. “You know what else I’m pretty sure about, _Stilinski_?” Oh, God. Stiles has had his fair share of Jackson pushing him up against a wall and being a general jerk. His body shouldn’t be enjoying it when he’s that angry, confused, and just so generally fucked up all over. “I’m pretty sure you want this.”

Stiles doesn’t fight it. He lets Jackson close the gap between them without protesting, opening his mouth to welcome Jackson’s tongue when it comes to run over his lower lip. It might be the alcohol, it might be hormones, it might be what-the-fuck-ever, but Stiles wants this, has been wanting for so fucking long.

There comes a time where a few gropes in the dark and a single blowjob just don’t cut it anymore. And he’s pretty sure that time is right now.

Stiles moans an incoherent string of syllables when Jackson bites down onto his lip, hard enough that he can feel skin tearing, and his hands fly to the front of Jackson’s shirt, popping the buttons with one swift pull.

“You didn’t have anything _tighter_ to wear tonight, did you?” he says between kisses and nibbles, chasing Jackson’s mouth when Jackson pulls away to breathe out a chuckle. 

“I’ve seen you staring, Stilinski. For a long time.”

Stiles doesn’t even bother denying that, choosing to undo Jackson’s jeans instead, just as Jackson takes his mouth again. His hand comes up to cover Jackson’s when Jackson thumbs at his jawline, intertwining their fingers as they moan around each other’s names. His other hand gets busy fumbling with the button on his jeans.

“A little help?” Stiles says, and Jackson breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Stiles’ as he nods impatiently. Once they get it open and Jackson looks back up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, Stiles allows his heart to skip a beat. “You’re turning.”

“What?” Jackson says in a sharp tone, looking at the mirror in the corner of the room. “Fuck. Fuck—I’m sorry.”

Stiles wraps a hand around Jackson’s arm before he can move away. “Relax, Jackson,” he says, and Jackson closes his eyes, lets his head rest on the curve of Stiles’ neck.

“Are you sure?”

Stiles nods, agrees to whatever questions are hidden in that sentence. _Are you sure this is right? Yes. Are you sure you want to do this? Yes. Are you sure you want to be with me? Yes. Are you sure you’re willing to die for me? Yes. Are you_ sure _, Stiles?_

“Yes.” And if there was anything holding Jackson back, Stiles watches as it crumbles to dust. “Yes.”

Again and again.

Jackson moans, picking Stiles up, and Stiles wraps his legs tight around Jackson’s waist. Lydia won’t be happy when she finds the broken bottles of perfume and trashed make-up that end up on the floor as Jackson pushes him up the dresser. And, to be honest, Stiles doesn’t give a flying shit.

He watches as Jackson strips, kicking away at what’s left of his clothes and shoes, and he does the same, wiggling out of his jeans and underwear, dropping it to the floor. The moment Jackson presses back up against him and his wet skin collides with Jackson’s hot chest, his brain glitches and short-circuits. 

He winces as Jackson thrusts up against him hard enough to make the dresser mirror crack against his back. There’s an unintelligible apology somewhere between Jackson’s hands slithering up his sides and Jackson’s teeth sinking into his neck, but Stiles has heard enough apologies for the day.

“Bed,” he says, bringing Jackson’s mouth to his again. “Please.”

And Jackson obliges, wrapping one arm around his waist to pick him up while his other hand comes up to touch the side of Stiles’ face. Jackson drags his tongue up Stiles’ neck at a pace that’s positively slower than Stiles’ thinking process right now, and Stiles moans, grinding against Jackson as soon as he’s on Lydia’s bed.

Fuck. _Lydia’s_ bed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Jackson says, voice rougher than usual, mouth pressed up against Stiles’ jaw. “Don’t. Please.”

Stiles is pretty fucking sure he would have stopped thinking altogether on Jackson’s voice alone, because, fuck, that is one sexy-as-fuck voice. And, woah, that’s a lot of bad words in a single train of thought.

“I—yeah,” he breathes out, forcing himself to pull away from Jackson. He’s relieved when he doesn’t find wolf-blue eyes looking back at him. “Holy fuck, you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he slurs, smiling up at Jackson.

“And you’re so fucking drunk, Stilinski,” Jackson grins, _grins_ , and Stiles is almost sure he’s about to lose it.

“I’m not that drunk.”

“I know.”

Stiles’ mouth grows so incredibly dry he’s afraid he might choke on his own tongue. He swallows, one time after another, trying to get his brain to turn back on. And all chances of that happening pretty much go to hell when Jackson slides his cock up against Stiles’, moaning around Stiles’ name as if it were the only thing worth saying.

“Stiles, I need—”

Stiles crashes their lips together, tasting beer and Jackson and—something else. He nods at the question never made. “I want you to,” he says against Jackson’s mouth. “Please.”

“But—”

“Shut up,” Stiles mutters under his breath, pressing kisses all over Jackson’s face. “I _need_ you to.”

Jackson steels under his touch and, for a moment, Stiles is afraid he might have screwed things up. But then, placing a chaste, slow kiss to Stiles’ mouth, Jackson reaches over to the nightstand and fishes for something inside a drawer. He straightens his back, kneeling over Stiles as he all but empties the bottle of lotion in his hand, and Stiles watches, memorizes every curve, sharp angle, ripple of muscle, every freckle on Jackson’s body. 

“Ready?” Jackson asks, and Stiles swallows, nods. Just as he’s breathing out, Jackson slips a finger in and Stiles freezes. “I’m not going to hurt you, Stiles.” 

_Not again_ , is what Jackson doesn’t say, but Stiles believes it despite the tension, despite the sheer panic coming in waves through him. He moves his hips slowly, letting his body adjust to the feeling, and Jackson breathes against his skin, whispers reassurances in his ear as a second finger slides inside. Stiles can feel the muscles stretching around Jackson’s fingers, almost burning as Jackson slides them in and out, and he half wants to run, half wants to stay and see if it gets any better. 

Jackson is panting next to his cheek; shoulders trembling with Stiles doesn’t know what. Stiles tilts his head to the side, presses a kiss to Jackson’s jaw and whispers, “It’s okay.” You would think the roles were reversed, up until that point, if Stiles weren’t throwing his head back now, crying out a mess of shits and fucks and _Jackson_ s as Jackson’s fingers slip further in.

“Stiles—” Jackson gasps, once again asking a question that’s not really there. He rests his forehead against Stiles’ and Stiles breathes in, breathes out; nods carefully.

Jackson takes his fingers out and Stiles voices a shameless whimper at the loss. He glances up at Jackson and Jackson closes his eyes, licks his lips, moving above Stiles until Stiles can feel the tip of Jackson’s cock rubbing against him.

“Should I roll over?” Stiles asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

Jackson shakes his head. “I want to see you,” he says, catching Stiles’ bottom lip with his teeth. He moves his tongue over it deliciously slow, licking at the cut he put there earlier, pushing his hips up against Stiles’ ass, and Stiles isn’t sure of what to feel.

Pain. Pleasure. Both. Neither.

Jackson wraps his fingers around Stiles’ cock, giving it leisured, lazy strokes. Stiles moans, letting his head fall back against the mattress, and Jackson’s cock presses harder.

“Come on, Jackson,” he says. He already knows what to expect. It can’t be worse than that. “Please.”

Jackson kisses him. Their lips don't part, not when Jackson starts to move and push his cock inside Stiles. It takes three sluggish, agonizing thrusts before he’s filling Stiles up completely. He takes his time, again, moving his hand around Stiles’ cock in time with his hips, sliding almost all the way out before driving himself back in. He swallows Stiles’ every moan with a kiss, barely giving Stiles time to gasp for air. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out against Stiles’ skin, between a nibble to Stiles’ jaw and another, picking up speed. “Fuck, Stiles.”

Stiles is close. So close. He can feel the muscles in his stomach tightening, his fingers prickling as he sinks a hand in Jackson’s hair, bringing Jackson’s head up. “Look at me,” he says, breathing into Jackson’s personal space, and Jackson does, through a drowsy stare. Stiles nods at nothing in particular, dragging his teeth over his already-bruised lip.

They’re still gazing at each other when Jackson thrusts once, twice before they cry out, “Fuck,” in unison. Stiles doesn’t miss the slight flick in Jackson’s eye color, the scrape of Jackson’s claws against his skin as Jackson comes inside him. Stiles’ cock pulses in Jackson’s hand, spurting all over his stomach and Jackson’s fingers.

Before the silence becomes uncomfortable, he pulls Jackson down for another kiss, one filled with all the things he’s afraid to say aloud. He still doesn't really know what put him in this situation to begin with, but it’s worth it.

Jackson laughs, then, and Stiles freezes for a moment, speaks against Jackson’s mouth, “What?”

“Nothing. I just—” Stiles watches, just _watches_ , and Jackson shakes his head, lips stretching over perfect teeth. “I can’t wrap my head around this. Us. Everything. It’s ridiculous. And I’m _exhausted_.”

Stiles is aware that his laugh is too loud and definitely unattractive; a mix of barely-contained snorts, bare teeth, and head thrown back to let out a howling-shrieking hybrid, but it blooms from a part of his brain restricted to drunken absurdity, and it only makes Jackson’s mouth stretch wider and Stiles’ body float in post-orgasmic haze.

His ass is hurting like hell, his stomach is sticky, they both smell like sex and sweat, and he’s pretty sure the hangover won’t be fun, but it’s good. It’s good knowing they at least got to do this before confronting a pack they’re not even sure they can handle. Knowing there’s a slight chance their bizarre plan will work and that he just might have a reason to come back from the dead, after all.

Jackson has always been a risk Stiles wasn’t willing to take. He can still get under Stiles’ skin like nobody else, and it drives Stiles insane more often than not, but he doesn’t regret a thing. He doesn’t regret being fed marshmallows against his will, or having to drive stakes through wolf-human flesh (okay, so maybe he’d rather not have done that, but it kept both of them alive), or pulling all-nighters at the hospital talking nonsense to Jackson’s deaf ears. 

There are still more questions left unanswered than he can count, especially when his eyes are fluttering shut and his body going limp. But, as Jackson settles next to him on the mattress, making the bed dip under their weight, and his brain starts drifting away, he can’t say he gives a shit.

It’s been a long way coming.

***

Stiles can’t say he’s fond of surprises.

And when they involve Lydia waking him up in the morning with fucking rays of sunlight straight to his face as a naked Jackson snuggles up against his back, the whole scenario just seems a lot less appealing. Oh, and did he mention on her bed? Naked? After having sex? _Naked_?

Yeah.

“I hope you’re planning to pay for the damages,” she says, hands on her hips as she stares out the window. She glances over her shoulder, smiling at them even though Stiles believes she shouldn’t. “Including buying me new bedclothes.”

Jackson mumbles something in his sleep, rolling onto his other side, and Stiles wipes at his face. He can’t tell if he’s freaking out or not giving two shits right now. He’s just a mess. “Yeah. Sure.”

There’s a low chuckle in Lydia’s throat, a roll of eyes. “I’m kidding, Stiles.”

“Right,” he says, not quite registering the words. He wrinkles his nose as his fingers brush over the dried mess on his stomach, still half-asleep. “Jesus,” he mumbles. “I need a shower.”

The room becomes silent for the most past (Stiles is not sure if Jackson’s muttering _shut up_ or _get out_ or _let me sleep_ but there’s definitely noisy complaints on his part), and when he blinks a few times to give his brain a jumpstart and glances back up at her, she nods with a grin.

“I’ll find you some towels.” She’s back not after long, leaving two neatly folded towels by the foot of the bed and a nonchalant, “There’s breakfast after you’re done,” thrown over her shoulder.

Stiles doesn’t feel like abusing her ex-boyfriend _and_ her shower, so he makes it as quick as possible. Jackson meets him halfway when he’s walking back to the bed, a languid smile curled on his lips as he presses them against Stiles’ and disappears into Lydia’s bathroom like it’s his own. Stiles ignores any imminent thought, and soon they’re standing in Lydia’s kitchen with awkward smiles and frantic feet, shirts switched because Stiles’ still-damp one bothers him and Jackson is, apparently, a gentleman. 

Stiles is about to ask what the hell Danny’s doing there when Scott appears behind him with a knowing smirk and a squeeze to the shoulder. Danny slips them a weird smile, accompanied by a frown that Stiles doesn’t know what to make of, and it’s almost instinctive, the way he steps toward Jackson as if it would make him invisible. 

Stiles feels _very_ violated all of a sudden. 

“Pancake?” Allison says, showing up from under the counter. “I totally caught this one before it fell to the floor.”

Stiles chuckles as she gestures vaguely at the pan in her hand, and figures it can’t be this bad. He deserves to have a normal, pancake-filled breakfast with his friends before it all blows up into ashes.

“Sure.”

She beams at him, brushing away a strand of hair from her face with the back of her hand and grabbing him and Jackson plates. As they settle in their seats, squeezed between Danny and the wall, Stiles chooses the right moment to switch pancakes with Jackson. He’s not about to eat the didn’t-fall-to-the-ground one.

“I saw that,” Jackson says, even though his eyes are settled somewhere else.

“Just eat your pancake, dude,” Stiles says as he sticks his fork through his, taking a big bite. He follows Jackson’s gaze.

“That is the single most ridiculous scene I’ve seen in my life.” 

“I think it’s adorable,” Lydia says.

Stiles glances at her, then back at Derek playing with her dog in the backyard. He’s pretty sure it’s somewhere in-between.

“I think it’s hot.” Stiles’ eyes snap in Danny’s direction. So does everyone else’s, he notices. “What? He is,” Danny says, eyebrows flying up and shoulders shrugging. “I’m just saying. It doesn’t make the guy any less weird. It’s true.”

Allison lowers herself on the seat next to Scott, setting a pile of pancake goodness on the table. “I don’t even know why he’s here.”

“Because he’s pack,” Scott reasons, and silence falls upon them. Stiles slowly looks up from his plate, fork frozen midway to his mouth, and Scott’s face contorts into panic mode. “I mean—”

Danny perks up. “He’s what?” 

“ _Packed_ ,” Stiles offers, struggling to come up with anything even remotely plausible. “As in carrying metaphorical guns that would shoot at us if we ignored him.”

Jackson’s head snaps in his direction and he stuffs his mouth with pancakes. Jackson rolls his eyes, turning back to Danny. “The guy’s a creep.”

“A hot creep.”

The three of them just stare at Danny for a good minute, until Lydia approaches with syrup and blueberries and they all laugh at the awkwardness. After an hour of eating and chit-chatting, Stiles is pretty sure he’s having a pancake-overdose and cannot breathe. So, when Lydia and Allison finish doing the dishes and Lydia demands they clean the rest of the house, which is worse than the entire month Stiles and his dad spent without so much as dusting the furniture, he’s more than happy to burn the calories.

Boyd and Isaac aren’t as willing, and Stiles can’t say he’s comfortable with the intent stares he’s receiving from them as he plugs the vacuum in. He almost wants to disappear upstairs with Scott and Jackson to get away from it, but then Erica slips him a smile and slaps his ass as she walks past him to yank her buddies into another room. He can tell they are still not happy to help, but when they come back and start moving furniture around so he can vacuum under them, Stiles can’t complain.

Erica runs off to bond with Allison and Lydia over their womanly magical powers once Stiles, Boyd, Isaac, and Danny are cleaning the living room in harmony. Not long after, Scott’s head pops up from the top of the stairs telling them he and Jackson need some help with the bedrooms, and Stiles and Danny fist bump when they get to stay away from used condoms and dirty sheets.

“Are you leaving?” Stiles frowns at Danny for a second, and Danny smiles. “Lydia said this was your going away party.”

Stiles puts the vacuum away, wiping at the sweat on his forehead before settling on the now-clean couch. “Yeah. Maybe. Probably,” he says. Danny drops what he’s doing to sit next to him, knee touching his to give him the smallest amount of comfort. “I don’t know.”

Danny stares at him and he chooses to look away, locking his fingers together in his lap. Danny mutters something in acknowledgment, and then, “I hope you don’t.”

“Yeah.” Stiles chuckles, but it’s not funny. “Me too.”

“I’ll miss you,” Danny says. Stiles spares him a smile. “I mean, everyone will. And as much as he doesn’t talk about it, Jackson will miss you the most.”

And _that_ is what Stiles was hoping he wouldn’t have to hear. It’s been all about Jackson for months, about saving him, wanting him, and just _being_ with him. In less than a day, it’s going to be about everything but Jackson.

The burning sensation comes all the way from his stomach when Stiles admits, “I know,” and Danny’s hand closes around his shoulder and lingers for a split second.

“I didn’t think he’d ever act on it, to be honest.”

“What?”

“He never hated you.” Danny shrugs as if it’s no big deal. It is a big fucking deal. “He hated your hyperactivity. And your clothes. Your car. Your best friend.”

“In plain English, he hated me.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Danny says, frowning at a spot on the wall. Stiles watches as he tilts his head to the side, gestures vaguely with his hands. “I don’t know how else to put it without making it sound ridiculous, but it’s Jackson we’re talking about here. He just kind of—he hated everything about you _but_ you. And he tried so hard, man. It was unreal.”

That makes sense to Stiles; in a weird, Jackson Whittemore-y way, but it does. He can even relate, to an extent, because when he started this, looking out for Jackson, he hated that constant smirk on Jackson’s face and the royal jerkiness, but he saw Jackson as someone he’d like to help. Someone that needed help, despite everything. 

And Stiles did help. He swallowed every knot Jackson put in his throat and pushed his way in, broke through skin and tried to fix whatever was wrong inside. But Jackson’s still broken, damaged like glass shattered into a million pieces, even though Stiles has tried to mend it back together.

“Hey, Danny,” Stiles mutters, and Danny sits up, glances at him. “Thank you for that.”

He ignores Danny calling out after him as he jumps to his feet and leaves, Lydia’s front door slamming hard behind his back. The walk back to his house is fast, and he’s not surprised when he finds Derek waiting by the porch, but he’s not in the mood for another heart-to-heart. There’s a silent agreement between them—Derek doesn’t ask, Stiles doesn’t answer—as he grabs the key hidden under a vase and makes his way in, straight to the liquor cabinet.

It’s not until after a full glass of throat-burning whiskey that he wipes at his mouth and speaks, “I’m about to seriously freak the hell out.” Derek reaches inside a pocket, throwing something at him, and Stiles almost doesn’t catch it. “What is it?”

“You should use it tomorrow.”

Stiles fumbles with it until the knife flicks open. “Why?”

“You see the inscriptions?” Derek nods at it. 

Stiles runs his thumb over the carvings on the blade. “Yeah.”

“It’ll help you kill the Betas.”

Stiles’ eyes leave the knife to look back up at Derek, but there’s no one there. Not anymore.

***

Stiles has been sitting there, in the dark, for hours. The ticking is loud in the dead quiet, but his ears have clogged up as the seconds move, time runs out.

 _Fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven._

He places a hand on the knives strapped around his thigh, closing his eyes as he listens to the clock tick, steady and even. Precise. His tongue slides between his lips, tasting fear and adrenaline. Hope. 

_Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Four in the morning._

There are footsteps behind him. He glances over his shoulder to see his dad coming, Sheriff uniform forgotten in the closet, and two guns holstered—one on his hip and one under his arm.

“Together, son,” is what he says, and Stiles nods, smiles, despite the sheer terror washing over him. “ _Always_.”

The drive to the old Hale house is quieter than it should be. There’s only white noise throbbing its way through Stiles’ head and a whirlwind of emotion and power threatening to burst. And they’re not the first ones there. Stiles figures Scott, Allison, Erica, and Lydia couldn’t sleep, either.

“Hey, man,” says Scott around a careful smile, pulling Stiles into a hug that knocks the air out of him. “You’re going to be fine.”

Then, it’s Allison and Lydia’s turn. Allison is crying more than Lydia is, and Stiles doesn’t know why, but he comforts her, gives her nape a tight squeeze and places a kiss to her cheek. He whispers, “Don’t worry about it. I trust you,” and she nods. His other arm tightens around Lydia’s quivering frame.

“I’m going to save you,” she says against his neck, tears wetting his skin. “I promise, Stiles—”

And he tells her to shut up, presses his mouth to the corner of hers without having her frown upon it. She knows what it means.

Erica is hesitant, but he waves for her to come, opens his arms, and she chuckles, gives him an awkward hug. As they pull away, he fishes the pendant inside his pocket. “Thank you,” he says, and she nods, closes her fingers around his as they wrap around it, just like that first time.

“Keep that close to you, Batman.”

Stiles laughs. “So, I don’t get to be Robin this time?”

“Nah, man,” Scott says from behind him. “Those tights are out of style.”

Boyd, when he shows up, doesn’t give him anything other than a handshake and a one-armed pat on the back. Isaac is more sympathetic. Their arms wrap in a weird angle around each other, but it’s comforting despite it being self-conscious.

“You’ll get through this,” Isaac says. He tenses up at the sound of a howl in the distance. “They’re coming. Where’s Derek—?”

“I’m here.”

Stiles turns around to see Derek approaching, Jackson by his side. He almost chokes around the knot that forms in his throat, taking a step back and placing his hand around a knife.

“Gear up,” Derek says, walking past them and into the house.

They all follow in a beat. Derek and Jackson stand in the front, while the rest of them stay back with their weapons in place. The howls get louder, closer as the other pack nears, and then, silence resonates around them. Stiles punctuates every breath with a hard swallow, trying to steady his fingers around the knife. 

He can only hear slow breathing for a moment, until Derek announces, “They’re here.”

The cat-like footsteps become audible as the horde of leather jacket-wearing Betas come into view, making their way down from the top of the stairs. He doesn’t have to be a werewolf to hear the gasp that escapes Derek’s chest when the Alpha strides towards them with a smirk set on his lips, eyes burning with a deep red that rivals Derek’s.

“Peter.” Derek takes a step back. “You can’t be here. I killed you.”

“I think I can,” Peter says, head tilting to the side, “ _nephew_.” He leans against the banister, cocking an eyebrow as he breathes out a dramatic sigh. “You know, I figured you wouldn’t hand Jackson over that easily. I brought backup as a precaution.”

“You know what I am,” Jackson says, raising his voice. Stiles watches as Lydia takes one, two steps back and starts chanting a spell under her breath. “I can kill you with one bite.”

“Can you, now? I was under the impression your cute little boyfriend was sucking the life out of you. And vice-versa.” Peter chuckles deep in his chest. “Ask me how I know that.”

Scott glances at Stiles, throwing him a puzzled look, and Stiles shakes his head. He has no idea what in the holy fuck is going on, but he’s pretty sure it’s not good. Especially when there’s a fully functioning dead body in the room. Literally.

“They won’t,” a familiar voice sounds from behind the other pack, and Stiles freezes, as well as Allison. “Because they’re pussies. And probably not smart enough to figure it out.”

“Kate?” Allison’s tone wavers. “What—? I don’t understand. What are you—?”

“Not Kate, sweetheart. Guess again.”

“Esther.”

“Attaboy,” Kate—Esther says around a laugh. “Look at you, Jackson. Brains _and_ looks. What else could Stiles have asked for? It’s a shame I’ll have to kill him before he gets to benefit from that.”

Peter smiles, hooking an arm round her waist and pulling her closer to him. “In case you’re wondering, Derek,” he says, “Kate didn’t suffer too much in Esther’s body. Although she _might_ have been alive while I was ripping her chest open. And the carving? Not very comfortable either, but she deserved it for trying to kill Jackson. I have a great future in mind for him.”

Stiles barely has time to register what happens next. He gets lost in the midst of growls and snarls, arrows and bullets as he listens to his dad shouting after him. Soon, one of Peter’s Betas is leaping in his direction and he’s flying through the wall, falling onto the hood of his Jeep. The werewolf raises an arm, claws sharp and deadly as it comes slashing downwards, ready to rip Stiles’ throat open. 

Stiles manages to drive a knife into the Beta’s side and the guy shrieks in pain, doubling over Stiles’ frame. Then, when an arrow flies at him and hauls his body to the nearest tree, Allison slips Stiles a smirk and proceeds to shoot another one in the head. 

They stand back to back as more Betas head their way, gathering in a circle around them. Stiles watches as Allison throws him a stake over her shoulder, from her back quiver, and catches it with a laugh. “Don’t ask,” she says between a breath and a chuckle. “A girl’s gotta think ahead.”

The next few minutes is a jumble of skin tearing as Allison fires one arrow after another, and blood gushing from the holes Stiles leaves on the Betas’ bodies after impaling them. He’s not sure whether to feel disgusted or proud of himself, but as he catches Lydia fighting one of them from the corner of his eye, he doesn’t care much about guilt.

“Go!” Allison says. “I’ll cover you. Go!”

Stiles does, rolling the stake in his palm as he catches a female Beta coming from his left, and his right arm plunges across the air to drive it through the girl’s heart. She drops to the ground like dead weight, but her mouth still bristles with sharp teeth as he towers over her to put his foot on the blunt end of the stake and step on it.

He’s about to pull it out when he listens to Lydia screaming for help, thus forgetting about it and taking the folding knife Derek gave him instead. He dashes through the woods to find Lydia on the floor, a werewolf on top of her as she tries to kick at him. Stiles swallows the guilt and stabs the wolf in the neck, hand never leaving the handle as the Beta drops dead on Lydia’s chest and she pushes him away, scrambling to her feet.

“The spell?” Stiles says, and Lydia shakes her head, wiping away at the blood on her face.

“I need more time.”

Stiles nods, giving her hand a squeeze. “Find somewhere safe.”

By the time they’re done with Peter’s army of Betas, Stiles isn’t sure there’s any humanity left in him. His hands are soaked in blood, as well as his clothes, and he can smell the stench of death all the way to his core. He scans his surroundings with scrunched up eyes, lifting a hand to block the early beams of light shining on his face.

Isaac is sitting on the dirt, back pressed up against a tree as Erica tries to do something about the wounds on his stomach. Her eyes are frightened, amber fading to black as Isaac spits out more and more blood, his face draining from color.

Stiles lets out a long breath, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers wrapped tight around the knife. Peter smiles, clapping his way through the sea of dead bodies with Esther close behind him, and Stiles glances over his shoulder to see Allison’s back straightening up, bow already in place, her nails turning white around it.

“That’s not going to work on me, Ms. Argent,” Peter says, scorn dripping from his teeth.

Thunder strikes far up in the sky, a warning of the storm to come, and Stiles closes his eyes, appreciates the cold breeze feathering over his skin.

“You’re right,” Stiles listens to Allison say. “It’s not.”

It hits him like lightning, the impact hard enough to knock him to his knees. His eyes snap down to see the blood leaking out of his body, staining his clothes redder. He drops the knife to the ground and his hands fly to the wound in a last effort to save himself. The metal glistens under his touch as his fingertips glide over the tip of the arrow, cold and slick, and he wants to double over and laugh until tears prickle his eyes. 

He wants to laugh at the sheer look of horror and confusion on Peter’s face, at the slight falter on Esther’s pompous smile, at the desperate cries for his name from Scott, Derek, Erica. Lydia. Jackson.

Fuck, Jackson. That arrogant, self-absorbed, narcissistic, too-pretty-for-his-own-good asshole; always walking around with that stupid smile, that stupid face, those stupid eyes, and those stupid, beautiful freckles that make Stiles grin even now, with blood trickling down his stomach and between his fingers, drying in his veins.

Stiles chuckles. His vision grows blurry on the sides as he turns his head to look around him yet again, taking in the sight of Lydia clutching the spell book close to her chest, disappearing into the woods right before whispering, “You’re going to be okay,” and Stiles is not even sure how it’s possible for him to hear her. Then again, when she has that ancient, two-thousand-page book in her hands, there’s not much he deems impossible.

Before he can turn his attention somewhere else, a second arrow hits him. He drops face-first to the ground, letting exhaustion overcome him little by little as the back of his eyelids turn into a spectacle of lights. His tongue fills with the taste of metal, thick and nauseating, coming in waves through him as life starts to slip away from his grasp.

“ _Does it hurt?_ ”

Stiles shakes his head, swallows a sob as he watches blood spreading like a disease under his own body, infecting the ground with crimson-red. Suddenly, there are arms around him, chin digging into his left shoulder.

“ _Does it hurt, sweetheart?_ ”

“No, mom,” he says, hand coming up to wrap around hers. “Not anymore.” He tilts his head, takes a good look at her before coming down in sobs, knees weak and trembling as he turns into her embrace and locks his arms around her. “I’m so sorry.”

“ _About?_ ” There’s humor in her tone, a light chuckle hidden between too long a vowel and another. Shit. “ _You’re not to blame for any of this, Stiles. You’re the strongest, bravest person I’ve ever known, and you’ve given everything up to help your friends and your family. You can’t keep blaming yourself for things that happen that are out of your control._ ”

Stiles chokes around his words and chaos slowly erupts around them. He’s almost afraid he won’t come out of it unscathed, but as Jackson runs right through their ghostly bodies, in Peter’s direction, his eyes no longer shining blue, but fogging up with a grey mist instead, blackened veins creeping up his pale face, a sense of security and warmth washes over Stiles’ body.

“I wish you could be here,” he says, and inhales a mouthful of air he doesn’t need.

“ _Me too._ ” She smiles, a hand running through his hair as the other wipes away a tear. “ _But there is a way we can be together._ ”

The affirmation slides past his lips with ease, “I know.”

Stiles watches over his mom’s shoulder as Peter tries to fight Jackson away, shaping into his full wolf as Jackson howls at him. He barks in retaliation, sharp teeth showing in a dare, and Jackson’s eyes glow a brighter grey.

It happens so fast Stiles almost misses it, but he can actually hear the sound of Jackson’s teeth sinking into Peter’s side, the familiar tear of skin and trickle of blood. The flicker in Jackson’s eyes are almost disturbing, the map of dark veins drawn on his skin doing nothing to help it. So, this is what a Theta looks like, Stiles figures. Like a rabid animal and a walking corpse muddled up into one.

Esther gasps in horror, taking a step back only to stumble into Derek, whose claws dig on the side of her neck, threatening to rip it apart.

“Tell me, Esther,” Derek says, close to her ear. “Was it worth it—bringing him back to life as an Alpha, taking Kate’s body, only to have _this_ happen to you?”

There’s no wait for an answer, just a clean, swift pull of claws over her throat. Her limp body collapses with a heavy thud when Derek finally releases his grip on her, next to Peter’s decaying corpse, poisoned by Jackson’s bite.

“ _You can come with me, Stiles. You don’t have to fight it._ ”

Stiles’ eyes trail back to his mom. A sharp, searing pain flares up in his stomach, and he drags his fingers over the holes there.

“I can’t, mom. I can’t—I’m sorry.”

He glances at his actual body, listening to the heartbeat fading, to the air getting trapped in his lungs. His friends—his pack—start gathering around it; Jackson is the first to kneel and start punching at his chest, throwing curses at his face as if he’ll be so angry it’ll make him come back.

“Open your fucking eyes, Stiles,” Jackson says, punctuating every word with a punch to Stiles’ chest. “Fuck you. You can’t do this to me, you fucking piece of—”

“Alright, Jackson. That’s enough,” Scott says as he and Derek grab Jackson by the arms, but Jackson just keeps on shouting.

“Let me go. Fuck—let me go!”

“ _I need you to come with me so we can be together_.”

Stiles doesn’t want to choose. He shouldn’t have to. 

He shakes his head, watching as Jackson crumples to a weeping mess a few feet away from his body, as his dad grabs his shoulders and holds him close, as Allison stares at her hands as if they were the filth of the world.

“ _You did what you had to do._ ”

The ground underneath him is crumbling to dust. The pain has travelled up his torso, infiltrating his brain with a deafening sound.

“ _You don’t have to fall. Take my hand, Stiles_.”

He grabs her outstretched hand, more out of panic than anything else, but her touch smolders his skin. 

“And what if I want to?” he says, and lets go.

Her face grows farther and farther as he falls down into the bottomless pit. Her cries of desperation are just noise to his ears. But not his dad’s or Jackson’s. He can still hear Jackson’s voice, screeching at his dead body. 

Stiles’ stomach bottoms out. Is this it? Is he condemned to an everlasting fall, listening to the bitter cries of the ones he left behind? Or will there come a point where he hears nothing at all?

The cracking sound of his spine breaking is like music to his ears. So, there is an end. Or a new beginning. He jolts back to life, choking on his own blood as his body mends back together, as his mind comes out of unwanted oblivion. His eyes flutter open to the astonished look on his dad’s face, to Jackson running back to him.

Jackson opens his mouth to speak as he lowers himself and yanks Stiles into a hug, but Stiles cuts him off with a strident laugh.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Stiles says, even if the words come out scraping at his throat, and pulls far enough away so he can watch confusion dance in Jackson’s eyes. “I love you. You know, just in case I die again.”

Jackson’s, “Fuck you, Stilinski,” has never felt so right.

 

>   
> _Don't hate yourself for your blackened veins,_  
>  I'm the one that caused the hemorrhage.  
>  Have you heard that love is dead?  
>  Now remember, I'm the one who faded  
>  and couldn’t handle a simple conversation  
>  and ended up just singing about it,  
>  and we don't have to laugh about it,  
>  or ever tip our fucking hats about it.  
>  Asleep, you're falling asleep.
> 
> _— The Flatliners_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Just felt like adding that an epilogue is entirely possible. Or even a follow-up. In a very distant future, but I'm just putting it out there.
> 
> 4/24: I am officially working on an epilogue. High five?
> 
> 7/17: I swear I'm still posting the epilogue. It's sitting here on my laptop, all written out, but I'm not 100% confident with it yet. But soon, I promise!


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, my God. You all hate me, I know. I can't believe how long it's been. :-(
> 
> However, I am happy to say that this is finally, finally over. I tried my best to make everything right, as promised. This was a very special story for me, and I love you all who helped. I appreciate everything you said, criticism or praise.
> 
> This is unbeta'd, but after a couple of re-reads, I couldn't find any blatant mistakes. So, here you go.
> 
> Thank you! <3

After the excruciating pain of getting three arrows out of him, coming back home that morning proves to be ten times worse than Stiles had thought. 

Stiles, his dad, and Jackson leave the others behind with only a nod from Derek and the subsequent half-smiles they spare Derek in return. Stiles still can’t believe he’s alive, because the weight on his chest makes every breath out of him feel like the last one, but he manages without making his dad freak out more than he already is.

Not long after, Jackson is pulling up at his place, helping his dad get him out of the car once the Jeep is safe and sound, per Stiles’ request. 

Once they’re inside, his dad leaves him and Jackson alone in his room—

“Ten minutes. No more. After that, I don’t want you near my son.”

“Thank you, Sheriff.”

—with the excuse of making some ‘goddamned coffee’. 

Stiles doesn’t know what to do except lower himself on his bed when Jackson’s grip loosens around him, wincing up at the ceiling as the taste of blood splays out on his tongue. He coughs on the curve of his arm, letting his body sway forward as his head spins, and Jackson’s hands are there again before he can form another thought.

“Hey,” Jackson says, almost too soft, too low for Stiles to hear; but he does. “Stiles. Stiles.”

Jackson’s thumb comes up to wipe at the corners of his mouth, catching droplets of blood threatening to spill, and Stiles nods for no reason. Maybe to assure Jackson—and himself—that it’s going to be okay, that he’ll heal with time. Lydia told him so.

“I’m—”

“Don’t. You’re not fine,” Jackson says with such cock-sureness that Stiles can’t fight a smile. Jackson shakes his head, fingers clutching at the hem of Stiles’ shirt and pulling. Stiles watches as the silent horror plays in Jackson’s eyes for that split second.

“Doesn’t hurt much.” Stiles raises his arms, teeth sinking into the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, and Jackson maneuvers the shirt over his head as best as he can. 

“Yeah, right,” Jackson says, leaning over to let his forehead fall against Stiles’. The laugh that passes his lips is heavy and not entirely humorless, with just a hint of hope that Stiles dwells on. “Shower?”

The question is not if he wants to, but if he can, if the pain’s not too much, and Stiles doesn’t know how he should answer. Jackson waits and waits and waits, fingers running carefully over the dried blood on Stiles’ chest, until Stiles closes the distance.

“Yeah.”

***

In the middle of the night, when Stiles’ body jolts awake from a nightmare and he coughs up blood in his own hand, his dad is the one to make him lie back down and hand him a damp cloth.

Stiles is thankful, even though he won’t admit it, that this isn’t Jackson.

“You okay, son?”

Stiles nods, tucks himself back in and, with his back to his dad, he goes back to sleep.

Jackson’s seen enough of his blood.

***

In the morning, Stiles wakes up to find Scott draped over his desk chair, an arm dangling over the edge as the sounds of his snores bounces off the walls. He doesn’t budge until Stiles tries to get up by himself and ends up on the floor, chest pressed flat against the hardwood.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Scott says, helping him scramble to his feet. “You need to rest.”

“Yeah.” Stiles rubs at his crusty eyes. “Sorry.”

***

In the afternoon, Stiles doesn’t do much except being manhandled by Boyd around the house until they finally settle on the living room couch. They don’t talk, for the most part, and Stiles appreciates the sound of James Bond’s theme instead of awkward conversation, but when the question arises, it’s a simple _why?_ that makes his stomach flip.

Boyd’s gaze weighs on him, and his brain stutters and fumbles with the answer a few times before he gives up, shrugging with a sigh.

“I don’t know,” he says. He turns his head to look at Boyd for a moment, but finds his eyes drifting to the patterns on the couch after a moment. “I just—I had to.”

He picks up his gaze and Boyd nods. “Okay,” Boyd says, hand reaching inside the bowl on Stiles’ lap to grab a handful of Doritos. “I get it.”

“You do?”

Boyd shrugs, eyes glued to the TV as he chews. “You’re his mate.”

Stiles opens his mouth, eyebrows shooting up. “You could say that. I mean, I was. I don’t—” He swallows. “I’m not. Not anymore.”

“And how’s that going?”

“Great,” he says. There’s no bond between Jackson and him now, nothing to guarantee they’re going to be together, and Stiles isn’t sure he can go back to what they were before. He shakes himself out of his trance, hand running through his hair, to see Boyd getting up. 

“I, uh—I’d walk you out, but,” Stiles says, twisting on the couch and gesturing vaguely at himself.

Boyd gives him a nod, hand closing around the door handle when he gets there. “No worries,” he says, turning around and opening the door to find Allison there, her fist raised as if to knock on the door. Boyd glances between her and Stiles for a moment before slipping past her.

“Hey,” Allison says with a small smile, scratching at a spot on her forehead. Her other hand wraps tighter around the strap of her messenger bag. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Stiles smiles back, watching as she makes her way to the couch, placing her bag onto the coffee table before them as she sits next to him.

She twists her neck to look in his general direction, mouth open as if to say something, but her eyes dance over his lap for a long minute before the words come out, “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, placing the bowl of Doritos on the spot next to him so he can move closer to her. He hears her swallow over the sound of the TV and chuckles despite the pain in his chest, an arm creeping over her shoulders.

“It’s okay, Allison. I’m okay.”

This lying thing? He’s definitely getting better at it.

***

In the course of a week, Stiles finds that lying to the pack comes more easily with time.

Erica is the second, after Allison, and she isn’t easy to convince, especially when she has to help Stiles move around the house, but he manages.

“You know,” he says, one time, as she’s helping him get to the bathroom at the end of the hall. “I have to confess: my masculinity is a little hurt by all of this.”

She raises an eyebrow, a smile tugging on her lips. “Aw, poor Stiles,” she says, purring close to his ear. “It’s not like I have to hold it for you. After all, you’re fine, aren’t you?”

Her eyes trail down his chest and Stiles follows, until he realizes what she’s implying. “Okay,” he says and raises a finger at her. “That is _not_ the Erica I like, alright?” He reaches inside his pocket and fishes out her pendant. “This is.”

She eyes the piece of metal for a moment before snatching it out of his hand. “Just go.”

Erica leaves shortly after that and, when Lydia’s turn comes around, it’s slightly less awkward. They stay in his room for most of the time, with Lydia using his computer while he sits there and answers questions about his bookmarks.

“Reddit. Facebook. Tumblr,” Lydia says, tipping her head to the side. “Tumblr. Why does that sound familiar?”

“I don’t know, maybe you’ve met one of the millions of users that post there on a daily basis?”

She frowns at him. “Hm. And what do you do there?”

“Stuff.” 

“Stuff?”

“Here,” Stiles says, leaning forward to type in his e-mail and password. He gestures at the screen. “See for yourself.”

Two hours _after_ the time Lydia was supposed to leave, they’re still scrolling through endless pages of passionate fangirling and photo manipulations. This time, though, Isaac is leaning over their shoulders with his eyebrows raised and a look of horror in his eyes.

“My childhood is ruined.”

“I told you,” Stiles says, sighing. “And there’s more—”

“Oh, no,” Lydia interrupts. “I am leaving. Right now. I can’t put up with another paragraph of Tony Stark defiling Captain America.”

“He’s not def—”

“Stiles. I’m leaving.”

“Fine.” Stiles holds his hands up. “Okay. I’d walk you out—”

“If you could. I know. I’ll show myself out.”

“Wait. Have you and Boyd—?”

“Been talking? Yes, we’ve all been talking, Stiles.” Lydia glances down at him, raising her eyebrows. “Can I go, now?”

“Yeah,” Isaac says before Stiles can, shooting Stiles a look. “I’ll walk you out.”

Stiles shakes his head as they head out of his room. “Fine. Go. I’ll just stay here,” he shouts after them, “and defile Captain America.”

***

Isaac has his feet up on the coffee table and Stiles sitting beside him when the front door opens. He slips Stiles a look, one eyebrow raised and a vein popping in his neck as if he’s ready to attack, but Stiles’ hand flies to his chest before he can move a muscle.

“It’s my dad,” Stiles says, looking over his shoulder. “Relax, dude.”

“Boys.”

Isaac’s shoulders loosen up. “Sheriff.”

“You can go now, Isaac. I’ll look after him.”

Stiles draws his hand back and watches as Isaac nods in silence and picks himself up, his hand closing around the leather jacket draped over the couch.

“You’re going to be alright?” 

Stiles gazes up at him, half-nodding and half-struggling for words. “Yeah. I—” Stiles closes his eyes, rubbing at them. “I’m fine.”

Isaac nods back at him, turning around to leave, but stopping dead on his track. “You know,” he says, “what you and Jackson have—” Isaac smiles, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck. “You should hold on to it.”

Stiles exchanges a look with his dad, who opens his mouth to say something. Stiles speaks before he can, “Dad. Please.”

“Ah, dammit.” A sigh, a shake of head. “Fine,” his dad says, but raises a finger. “But not tonight. Tomorrow. And Isaac will go with you.”

“I will?” Isaac says, and Stiles glances over at him to see him standing by the door.

“Yes!” Stiles says, just as his dad echoes him, and Isaac mutters something under his breath before leaving.

“You’d better get back home in one piece. You hear me? One whole piece, Stiles.”

“I will, dad.” Stiles breathes in. “I will.”

***

Stiles tries not to ask any questions when Derek shows up in his room in the morning, but when Derek picks him up without a word and carries him outside, he can’t exactly restrain himself.

“Okay, dude. Seriously? First, doing that: not cool. I can walk on my own.” Stiles says, just as Derek puts him down on the ground and he loses his balance. “Shit.”

Derek smiles down at him, eyebrows flying up. “Really, on your own?”

Stiles rolls on his side, listening to the rustle of leaves beneath him as he does so. “Fine. Don’t ever drop me like that again. Ever.”

“You said—”

“Yeah, I know what I said. Just shut up and help me, alright?” Stiles says, but Derek only stares at him. “Derek. It’s getting cold down here on the _dirt_.”

Derek helps him to his feet, shoving him inside the car with a sigh. “I should have let Isaac handle you.”

“Well, that was the deal. Actually, I don’t know what you’re doing here.” Stiles glances at Derek as the engine starts. Derek is very intent on looking at the road. “What are you doing here?”

Derek’s fingers wrap tighter around the wheel. “I—” Stiles waits, tapping his fingers against his knees. He’s ready to speak when Derek goes on, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything. Esther, Peter,” Derek says, turning his neck to look at Stiles. “Jackson.” 

Stiles holds Derek’s gaze for too long a minute. He clears his throat. “You don’t have to apologize. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, Stiles. I can hear your body trying to mend back together. I can smell it on you, and it’s my fault.” Derek shakes his head. “I turned Jackson. I reached out to Esther, and look what she did to you. To Kate.”

“Look, if I were to blame someone,” Stiles says, looking out the window. He frowns. “It’d be Peter, alright?” _Where the hell is Derek going?_ “He’s the one who killed your family and found a way to come back from the dead. You might not be the best person to be around, but—” Stiles takes a deep breath. “He turned Scott and orchestrated this insane plot to get Jackson to join him. To be honest, I still don’t understand half of it, but we won. He’s dead. Esther’s dead.”

Stiles glances back at Derek, a half-smile spread on his lips, and Derek nods before stopping the car. He hops out, walking over to help Stiles to his feet.

“I just—” Stiles gestures at himself. “I just need a hand, alright? No need to hurl me over your shoulder, man.”

Derek lets out an exasperated sigh, but circles Stiles’ back with an arm and doesn’t say a word as Stiles takes a few careful steps before stopping.

“What—?” Stiles studies the old Hale house, which now looks even worse than before. “Why are we here?”

Derek tightens his grip on him and nods towards the house. Stiles figures what the hell, it can’t be worse than dying and being brought back to life. 

As he steps through the threshold, however, he thinks it’s pretty close to that. For starters, the smell is unbearable. The imagery is not the best, either; staring at a pile of dead bodies isn’t exactly fun, especially when Peter’s head is sticking out from it.

Stiles picks up his gaze, meeting Scott’s eyes as Derek’s arm loosens around his frame. Scott spares him a smile, along with Erica and Isaac, while Boyd just stares at him. He can’t see Lydia or Jackson, but when he opens his mouth to point that out, someone walks through the door. 

Lydia comes in first, clutching the spell book close to her, and the sound of her heels against wood echoes in his ears. Jackson, when he finally shows up, stops just after stepping through the threshold. Derek lowers his head, taking a step back, and Stiles has to hold himself up for a split second before Jackson’s arms are there to support him.

“Careful, Stilinski,” Jackson whispers to him, but despite the smile on his face and the stuck-up tone back in his voice, Stiles can hear the question. _Are you alright?_ “Wouldn’t want your hyperactive ass to get hurt. Again.”

Stiles chuckles, turning to the others when he catches Boyd soaking the bodies with something that smells like gasoline out of the corner of his eye. The laugh dies in his throat, but he doesn’t avert his eyes. Instead, he watches as the pack gathers around the pile, Derek taking a step forward with a lighter in hands.

He gives Stiles a questioning look and then turns to Lydia, who nods and throws the book on top of the bodies. Stiles watches in child-like fascination as the fire envelops the bodies, swallowing them up with flames that slowly grow brighter. From red, to orange, to yellow.

The book burns with a dance of blinding lights, one that makes Stiles close his eyes to protect himself. Still, behind his eyelids, he can see the spots flicker as if he were watching.

Then, everything turns to darkness. 

He opens his eyes to find that the flames have now turned to black, and the smell of burnt flesh and paper fills the space they’re in. He glances up at Jackson, wanting to ask why and what, but Jackson only tugs at him, whispers, “Come on, we need to get out of here,” and Stiles goes.

They all go. 

From outside, they watch as shadows consume the house and everything in it. 

“That’s it?” Stiles says. “That’s it? It’s over?”

Jackson nods. “Yeah.” 

Stiles doesn’t move for a while. He has to see it all turn to ash to believe he’s finally free from it all. The agony, the constant weight crushing his chest is fading away, and it’s only when he turns to look at Jackson that he realizes he’s standing on his own feet.

“Dude,” he says, taking a step forward just to check. His knees don’t shake, his legs don’t buckle under his weight. “I’m fine. I’m fine!”

And this time, it’s true.

From a distance, he hears Lydia’s voice. “Well, now that you’re fine,” she announces, “don’t forget you owe me a new dresser. And a mirror.”

Jackson’s laugh sounds over his.

Yeah, it’s _over_.


End file.
